


Things remain (feel the strain)

by Accidental_Ducky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - No Superheroes, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death(s), Obadiah Stane is a Creep™, Slow Burn, Touch-Repulsed Tony Stark, psychic tony stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29056455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidental_Ducky/pseuds/Accidental_Ducky
Summary: Obie strides into the room, dressed in the bloody clothes from the junkyard and sporting that dead man’s grin. It makes something twist harshly in Tony’s gut to see it, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s honest-to-God, hand-on-the-bibleterror. This beast, this monster, is the most abominable thing in this entire goddamn house.And he’s heading straight for Bucky.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, past Natasha/Bucky
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37





	1. The Ghost Hunt Gets Britta'd

**The Juggernaut**

Bruce Banner had been a bright boy, but he was too big and too slow, always the butt of the joke. His mother left when he was nine and his father died when he was sixteen, leaving Bruce the old junkyard to look after.

He kept it up to snuff, but it never got much traffic and soon that traffic stopped entirely because who wanted to do business with a brooding giant of a man? Who wanted to be near someone with green-tinged skin? He heard the rumors in town, saw the way people averted their eyes just like his mother used to.

One day, Bruce Banner snapped.

It started on the winding road that leads into the junkyard when he found a woman walking along the path, her thumb stuck out and her eyes hopeful. He pulled over and she didn't hesitate to climb into his truck, smiling sheepishly as she explained that her car broke down.

"The junkyard is closer than town," he said as he started to drive again. "You can use the landline in my office." The woman chattered all the way there, her smile grew brighter and brighter until she had the phone against her ear and realized there was no dial tone. Her eyes moved from the cord dangling from the phone and followed it to the frayed wires that ended just shy of the wall jack.

The dawning horror is what Bruce grew to love, the widening of eyes and a scream perched on the tip of their tongues. The first woman is killed fast, a broken neck that's hidden when he shoved her in one of the trunks of the many cars.

It was the start of something, a wonderful sort of stress relief that made his heart pump and his cheeks flush. Hitchhikers weren't a rare thing; he started picking them up once every other month and then sooner and sooner. The cars near the gate were full by the nineties.

Ten years after he first started, a swat team and a whole squad of police officers swarmed the junkyard, tearing the office door off its hinges and firing round after round into the hulking man. In the end, it takes fifteen bullets to bring Bruce to his knees and he still takes half their team down with him.

The remaining police found a wallet tucked between the center console and the passenger's seat of Bruce's truck, it was old and frayed and belonged to a woman that was reported missing in 1984. Her name was Betty Ross.

**The Psychic**

_Paranoia strikes deep, into your life it will creep. It starts when you're always afraid_ —

Tony jerks when his earbuds are ripped out, shrinking further in the passenger's seat of the Rolls-Royce when he spots his employer's glare. Obadiah Stane is terrifying at the best of times, but it's even worse when he's actually in a foul mood and seems to have been talking for a good five minutes before realizing that Tony can't hear anything over the Buffalo Springfield song.

"What's up," he asks, pocketing his phone. "Are we here already?" Tony leans forward as far as his seatbelt will allow and glances past the rain misting against the windshield, spotting a derelict junkyard with towering piles of cars on all sides. One strong gust of wind could probably cause a lot of harm in a place like this.

"No, Anthony," Obie remarks dryly," I've decided to make a pit stop."

"Wouldn't be the first time, big guy. You've got a bladder the size of a corn kernel." If possible, Obadiah's frown deepens, and Tony fights the urge to make himself small. He's a strong independent psychic who don't need no abuse. He's also broke as all fuck, so he _does_ need a paycheck if he wants to keep binge-watching Scream Queens. "Right, you're not in the mood. I'll just…." He gestures at his door, flailing to get out of his seatbelt. "I'll find us a bloodthirsty ghost."

"How considerate." He ignores the sarcasm and scrambles out of the cramped interior, taking in a deep breath of air that doesn't carry the scent of Old Spice. Tony takes a few steps away from the car, wincing as a migraine begins to build behind his eyes, a steady pressure that foretells nothing good. Obie rounds the car to stand slightly in front and to the right of him, dressed immaculately in a dark suit that emphasizes the wide breadth of his shoulders.

Tony rolls his shoulders and his neck, trying to force the spasming muscles to relax before the real onslaught begins. Tonight is going to royally suck and he's glad that he'd snuck his Hydroxyzine in his pocket before he left his apartment. What Obie doesn't know won't get Tony's ass kicked. He reaches into his jeans pocket, pulling out the prescription bottle and popping the cap off.

He lets out a wail as the bottle is knocked out of his hand by the iron-tipped cane, little white pills scattering over the muddied gravel.

"Goddammit," he hisses, dropping to his knees to pick them up. "I just need a little help!"

"You need to grow a pair and do your job without getting high," Obie shoots back.

"Hydroxyzine just helps with the anxiety! It doesn't affect my job!" The bald man gives a disgusted scoff, grabbing a handful of Tony's shirt and hauling him to his feet. "No touchy."

"You better keep that attitude in check, Anthony, because I'm not in the mood. Your mommy's not around to protect you from the big bad world anymore." It has the effect Obie is going for, Tony flinching back and hunching his shoulders. His mother is a sore spot and has been since he was a teenager, more keenly felt than the loss of his father. Obie prods at the scar whenever he wants to make the psychic more manageable.

"It's just bad tonight is all." He lets out a shuddering sigh, dropping his chin against his chest.

"Well, work through it." Obie steps out of Tony's personal bubble, careful not to let any touches linger lest he trigger a vision. Tony would say it was a kindness, but it's more likely that he doesn't want the skinny delinquent to know his secrets.

Tony hunches over as a flash of memory hits like a sledgehammer to the back of his head, vision turning blue for a moment as he sees a young woman standing on the side of the road, her thumb sticking out and a hopeful smile showcasing a pair of dimples.

"Obie, maybe we should leave this one alone."

"Is that your professional opinion or just your yellow streak?"

"Honestly?" He straightens up slowly, rubbing at his stomach and willing his grilled cheese to stay down. "It's a bit of both at this point." Obie snatches a photograph out of his assistant's hand, holding it out for Tony to take from him. Tony doesn't move for a moment, his own personal rebellion against the man that had been put in charge of him after his parents died and failed miserably, but one dark look from Obie has him taking the photo. It's an aerial view of the junkyard, fairly decent work and showing all the nooks and crannies hidden while on foot.

"Anytime now, Anthony."

"Don't rush me." He studies the photo for a few more seconds before kneeling again, hand shaking as he lets it hover over the damp ground. It's been raining on and off all day and misting enough to have Tony cold even beneath the hooded sweatshirt he's wearing. With a last deep breath, he touches the ground.

Pain lances through him like a bullet, white-hot and spreading through his head as he crumples forward. The visions come individually, quick flashes of broken limbs and blood splattering over rusted out cars; screams piercing his ears as people are shoved in trunks, eyes glazed over and unseeing as the lid comes down to bury them.

Tony jerks backward, picture fluttering to the ground as he fights to get air into his lungs, aching for his inhaler and unable to make his limbs work.

"Forty," he wheezes," there's…." He trails off until he's sitting up against the car, massaging his chest. "There are forty people here! You said he only got nine!"

"Then he's added a few since his death," Obie says, all cool nonchalance. "Where's he hiding at?" Tony rubs the grit off his face using his shoulder, looking forward to the hot shower he'll be taking later. "Anthony!" Tony matches his glare, half-tempted to say nothing and let the Hulk tear Obie to pieces.

"Far enough away not to worry, but close enough to make my head feel like someone's hitting it with a hammer." He stands on shaky legs, pointing farther into the scrapyard towards the northeast. "Happy hunting, Obie. If you don't mind, I'll just wait in the car." He's halfway through turning when a meaty hand grabs the back of his sweatshirt to haul him up and around like he's a little boy that's attempting to run into traffic.

" _All teams, switch over to Alpha_ ," Obie barks through the comms. " _Assemble the cube!"_ Tony winces at the sudden shouting, bringing a hand up to rub at the ear closest to Obie.

"Do you have to yell all the time? People would like you better if you used your inside voice."

"Says the man without a boyfriend."

"A conscious choice, I'll have you know. Boyfriends mean having to go out on dates and I prefer to spend my free time lounging around my apartment in boxers and drinking milk straight from the carton." Obie makes a face, looking torn between not acknowledging Tony's life choices and criticizing him until he's a sobbing mess. Well, joke's on him because Tony only cries during sad movies and Adele songs. Obie rolls his eyes so hard that Tony's only mildly surprised when they don't pop right out and roll across the muddy ground like a pair of dice.

"Remind me why I put up with you again."

"Because I can read and write in ancient Egyptian, decipher hieroglyphics _and_ hieratic, and well, I am the only person within five thousand miles who can properly code and catalog this library, that's why." And that probably proves Obie's internal monologue about why Tony should be locked in the looney bin, but there'd been a Mummy marathon on TNT last night and Tony couldn't pass it up.

"I should've just let you die in that alley three years ago." Tony doesn't flinch away from the barb, his hand coming up to cover the inside of his right elbow where track marks had once marred the tanned flesh there. He knew it wasn't smart even when he was floating high on Ice, but it kept his personal brand of psychosis and clairvoyance at bay.

Instead of rising to the bait, Tony moves a few feet away and watches the team assemble the rest of the cube; Latin inscribed glass sheets slotting into place with aluminum piping and metal panels. They've sped up the assembly time, which isn't surprising since this is the twelfth time they've done it in the field. Other men are setting up the floodlights, the artificial light glinting off rusted metal and the broken pieces of taillights that glitter on the ground like drops of blood.

 _They'd better hurry_ , Tony thinks as he looks back towards the northeast, the keening howl drifting closer. _The Hulk's not slowing down, and he'll be here in less than ten minutes at this rate_.

He'd gone into deep research mode after he got the call two days ago, digging into local folklore and a few police files that he'd hacked his way into. He liked to think of it as not letting his skills go to waste even if he's only using them to break into things rather than furthering the family business of creating weapons of mass destruction. Plus it's another way to give his father the finger. And Obie. And his high school guidance counselor. Fuck all those guys.

Tony shakes his head, grasping onto the tenuous threads of his sanity as he fights to keep the visions at bay.

The Hulk—one Bruce Banner if anyone is actually interested—had been screwed from the very beginning; a giant compared to others his age even as an infant, he'd been raised by his father and snapped when the old man died a few years ago. When the loneliness became too much, he'd find himself a female hitchhiker and tear her apart with his bare hands once he got them back to the junkyard, relishing in the warm blood that pulsed over his fingers. It took an entire SWAT team to kill him and even then, three of the officers had their innards used as fertilizer.

It's a shrill howl that drags Tony's attention back to reality, the sound of metal and glass being compressed too quickly and buckling under the weight. He rubs at his temple, staring at where the sound had come from. The team of workers ignores it easily, working away like diligent little ants while Obie stays firmly in the center of the makeshift hub.

"Tony," he calls over the noise. "Let's take a walk."

"I'm not gonna end up dead in a trunk, am I," Tony asks suspiciously. Obie gives him a severe side-eye, not answering as he starts walking in the direction Tony had pointed out earlier. "That's great, Obie. Very reassuring."

They're about a yard out from the others when the groaning of metal gets louder, a car toppling off a pile and crashing to the ground a foot away from the two men.

"I hate being rushed," Obie sighs dramatically.

"I don't fancy being a pancake." Tony heaves out a breath, fingers going to the crook of his elbow and scratching absently at the tattoo there. It's nothing intricate, just an upside-down triangle with silver lines running over it in places, such a pale blue it almost seems to glow, and the word _Arc_ beneath it in hot rod red. The Arc Home for Recovery is what had really saved Tony's life three years ago, the tattoo helps him remember why he keeps fighting.

"Anthony." He glances away from his arm and into Obie's hard eyes, glinting like ice chips in the harsh glare of the lights. "Are you sure you're not high?"

"I've been sober for three years, I'm not gonna fuck it up now." Then, under his breath so that Obie doesn't hear him," Pepper would kill me."

"What was that?"

"I said this guy might be a little more than I signed up for."

"So I'll let you have some extra cash from your inheritance this month. An extra thousand."

"Wow, I can buy _gourmet_ instant noodles after I pay my bills. What about your Chessmen? Do they know that they may be dying in the next…." He trails off, eyes squinting as he does the math. "Oh, about eight minutes?"

"They're well-paid."

"Which doesn't mean shit if they're dead." Obie shrugs one thick shoulder, grinning. It's a cold and emotionless thing, the grin of a dead man. "Why do you want these ghosts so bad, huh? What are you up to?"

"Careful, Anthony. Curiosity killed the cat."

 _But satisfaction brought it back_. He's careful not to say so aloud, to voice it means being jabbed in the chest with that damn cane that Obie totes everywhere. Tony _hates_ that thing, hates the cold feel of it when Obie presses it under his chin, or the bruises it leaves against his back when he makes one smartass remark too many and Obie just _snaps_.

" _Sons of bitches!"_ Tony and Obie both jerk around to see the source of the noise, finding a small group of men forcefully escorting a couple towards them. The man is tall and skinny and distinctly English while the woman struggling beside him is lithe with cropped blonde hair and a snarl. Ian Boothby and Justine Hammer. Because tonight just needed even more drama.

"Wonderful," Tony grouses, scratching at his tattoo again. "The Ghostfacers have arrived. Did you bring those stupid flares again, Ian?"

"How can you justify what you're doing here? It's slavery!"

"It's just business," Obie says, almost looking amused. These so-called ghost liberators are only flies to a man like Obie, a little irritating as they buzz around his head but easily swatted away. "What about you, Justine? Still carrying around that cute little spellbook?" He prods the tip of his cane against the satchel bumping against Justine's hip with her movements.

"These aren't animals you're capturing," she snarls. "They're human beings!"

"Last time I checked, they were crazed murderers," Tony remarks dryly. "If you'd like us to lock you in here with this guy and see if you can tame him, then be my guest. I'll bet Obie would give you half a million bucks out of my inheritance if he comes back and you're all singing Kumbaya."

Obie actually chuckles at that, a dry sound that isn't heard all that often. He's in a good mood tonight. At least, he is until Justine spits on his expensive shoes and the dead man's grin drops away to reveal the usual blank-faced anger. He's always angry, it rolls over him in black waves that never seem to let up. One day that anger and arrogance are going to get Obie killed.

"Who are you to play God," Justine demands.

"Playing's for children," Obie says, stepping uncomfortably close to her. Tony's never liked Justine, she's too squirrely, too fake. She's good at pretending to be passionate, but it falls flat somehow. At the same time, he knows how it feels to have Obie all up in his personal space like that, hot breath that smells of cigar smoke and the nervous hammering of Tony's heart in his chest.

"Delusions of grandeur aside, you'll never pull off what you're planning without the right spells," Ian says, smug. "And you still need the thirteenth ghost, Stane."

"Throw them out of here," Obie barks. "They've already wasted too much of my time." He turns away, striding toward a precarious pile of crushed cars. He doesn't hesitate to start climbing them like a kid on a jungle gym, but Obie is no little kid. He's got to be at least two hundred pounds of pure muscle at this point and it'll be a miracle if he isn't buried under those cars.

"What did he mean about a thirteenth ghost," Tony calls after him.

" _Get the cube into position_ ," Obie says, voice echoing through the comms.

"Obie, you said we only needed twelve! This is number twelve! I'm done after this! You promised!"

"And how will you survive if I decide to cut off your monthly payments, Anthony?" He's at the top of the pile now, a King surveying his kingdom. "You will work for me until I say you're done. The time for arguing has passed. I suggest you get somewhere safe." His next words go out through the comms, the words doubling like two TVs when they're on the same channel just down the hall from each other. " _Release the bait!"_

"What bait? We've never needed bait before."

"You said it yourself, this one is different." There's a rumble of a diesel engine firing to life and gravel crunching under heavy tires, Tony suddenly remembering the old tanker truck Obie had decided to bring along. The truck trudges into his line of sight, the hoses on either side gushing out blood on the rusted-out cars and ground, heavy blasts of red that fill the air with the scent of copper.

"You've gotta be shitting me…." Tony shakes his head and takes two healthy steps backward before turning tail and sprinting several feet behind where the cube has been set up. The truck stops less than three feet away from the glass and metal, the headlights illuminating the droplets of red sprayed across the front of the glass.

" _Power up the cube_." The doors of the cube slide open as a light flickers on inside it. " _Start Transmitting_." A male voice chanting Latin blasts through the speakers, the drawing spell forcing Banner out of hiding deep in the junkyard. Tony can hear metal crumpling and another howl that seems to split the night sky, a thundering boom.

"We haven't recalled the teams yet, Obie! They're gonna be trapped!" He gets no response from Obie, the only sounds being the wind and the continuous chanting. He presses a button on his headset, yelling through the comms with no care about eardrums. " _All teams return to base! I repeat all teams return to base!_ "

Men begin to sprint for the lights and some of them even make it; one man is bent at the waist and shoved through the jagged remains of a car window, sliced up like a Christmas ham. Others are just as unfortunate, bent and thrown away like broken dolls.

Tony slides on the spectral viewers—just fancy glasses with a small light on either end—watching in horror as the newly revealed Banner tears his way through the junkyard. Piles of cars topple over, glass exploding, metal splinters flying. One man looks behind him as he sprints, not even noticing that he's sealed his own fate until he runs face-first against the cube. Banner follows him inside just before the doors slide shut, tossing the man against the walls like a ragdoll.

"No," Tony shouts, beating his palms against the glass. "Let him go! Put him down!" The man is already dead when Banner drops him, turning to face Tony. He's broad and ugly, malice burning bright in his eyes as he glowers down at Tony. _I'll remember you_ , that expression promises. _You're next_. Tony steps back, shoes sliding against the wet grass and sending him sprawling.

"Somebody help us," Justine screams. Tony turns, finding the woman cradling a dead body in her arms. There's so much blood that Tony doesn't even recognize the corpse at first, not until he sees a dead flare in what's left of its hand. "Ian, stay with me! Please, somebody! Help!"

"I hope you're happy, Obie." Tony stands and winces at the growing stiffness in his knee. "You got your twelfth ghost and you butchered at least half a dozen people in the process." He turns toward the pile of cars where he'd last seen Obie and draws in a sharp breath.

Obadiah Stane lies in a broken pile, a shard of glass torn through the meat of his throat.

When Bucky got a phone call about a rich uncle that had passed away and left him an inheritance his first thought had been that he could pay his kids' tuition, his second thought had been the overdue hospital bills left over from his wife's treatment, and his third thought was that he should probably say something before the man on the other end of the phone wondered if Bucky had died of a stroke.

"Uh…." _Oh yeah, Barnes, that'll reassure this guy that you're not incompetent_. "I'm sorry, are you sure you've got the right guy? I don't even think I have an uncle."

"You _are_ James Buchanan Barnes, right," the lawyer asks, beginning to sound skeptical. "You live in the Riverwalk apartment building in Brooklyn?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"Then this is your uncle, Mister Barnes. Are you able to come to my office to sign some papers?"

"No, I'm sorry. I've got two kids to shuffle places after school and my housekeeper isn't very useful at the best of times." Clint's head snaps up from where it had been bent over a saucepan filled with cereal. Honestly, that was just proving his point since all their bowls were stacked in the sink.

"That's fine. Name a time and I can meet with you at your apartment to play the video he left you." Bucky hesitates a moment, running his fingers through his hair. It was shaggy now that he didn't have Natasha to cut it, brushing his broad shoulders with some of it tucked behind his ear. "Mister Barnes?"

"Huh? Oh, uh, yeah, that sounds fine. Is eight alright for you?"

"That works just fine. I'll see you in the morning. Have a good day."

"You too." Bucky sets the landline down on the kitchen table, scratching absently at his beard as he tried to remember any uncles that had been alive until a few days ago. The one he had on his mother's side had died before Bucky was born and his father…. Oh fuck. It was _that_ uncle, the one no one talked about at Christmas dinner.

"What's up," Clint asks around a mouthful of Trix. The sight of a grown man with his cheeks puffing out should make Bucky roll his eyes, but the familiarity of it helped settle his nerves. When the phone first rang this morning, he'd been sure it was more debt collectors and his heart had threatened to explode.

"My uncle's dead…."

"Oh man, that's a bummer."

"Yeah, I guess." To be honest, Bucky wasn't sure how he felt about it since he'd only met the guy when he was a kid. Hell, last time he saw his uncle Obie was when Bucky had fallen out of a tree trying to rescue his mother's cat; he'd been nine and had broken his arm in the fall, but he remembered the hulking form of Uncle Obie looming over him like some kind of wraith.

"…Funeral if you want."

"Sorry, I was kind of lost in my head for a second. What were you saying, Clint?"

"I said I could keep the kids if you wanna go to the funeral."

"He was cremated, I think. The lawyer wasn't very specific about anything in particular."

"Well, what'd he say?"

"That my dead uncle left me an inheritance. He's gonna swing by tomorrow morning with a video or some paperwork. I'm not entirely sure." Clint nods understandingly, reaching out his free hand to pat Bucky's arm.

Even if he wasn't so good at doing the thing Bucky hired him for, Clint was great when it came to the touchy-feely stuff. Steve got beat up again on the playground? Clint swooped in with superhero band-aids. Darcy's having boy troubles and doesn't want her over-protective dad coming up with colorful threats that all end with disembowelment? Clint pops up with the latest edition of _Cosmo_ and a tub of ice cream. He's like Mary Poppins on speed or something.

"We're gonna have company in the morning," Clint asks.

"Uh-huh."

"In this apartment?"

"Yeah."

"Where Stevie's Nightwing boxers are strewn across the furniture like doilies and our dishes are basically one big game of Jenga?"

"Yep." Clint develops a blank expression that Bucky knows well enough by now, it's the look that means he's trying to calculate if the work is actually worth the effort. The left corner of his mouth twitches downward as the pros begin to outnumber the cons, but then his head tilts to the right and forward as he thinks of a good reason why cleaning isn't in his job description.

"We won't let the fancy lawyer in the kitchen and we'll just shove the underwear under couch cushions until he's gone."

"You do realize you were hired to help keep the place clean?"

"Last time I tried to clean, your favorite pillow caught on fire."

**The First Born Son**

Peter Parker was a cute kid with negligent parents and a young aunt that blended into the woodwork. Despite all of that, Peter was an out-going and happy kid that had no problems with making friends.

He developed an obsession with cowboys after watching McLintock with his babysitter. May settled with just reading a book, but Peter dove into cowboy lore headfirst; he skimmed the books, watched any movies he could find, and bought a slightly used costume on eBay using his mom's credit card.

Peter drug his friends into his cowboy frenzy, forcing them to play along. The next door neighbor fell in line easily enough, taking on the role of a skeezy landowner. They played in Peter's backyard every day after school, they chased each other around until supper and an hour after that until it was time for their baths.

One day, Peter came out with a plastic tomahawk he'd bought online. The neighbor brought out an authentic bow and arrow his dad used for hunting. The afternoon started like normal, the boys running around and squealing with laughter. It was when they went back out after dinner that things went sideways. The skeezy landowner put an arrow between the cowboy's eyes, a spray of blood made the landowner vomit out the treehouse window. 

The babysitter called nine-one-one, but Peter was already dead.


	2. Houston, We Have so Many Problems

**The Jackal**

Aldrich Killian was raised by a single mother and had all the silver spoons his mouth could hold. He was spoiled rotten and didn't know what consequences were thanks to his mother's relationship with the police in their neighborhood.

His misdeeds started small, picking apart dead animals when he was too young to catch live ones. When he was eight, he snuck into the neighbor's yard and used a kitchen knife on their kitten. Their little girl had screamed the next morning when she found the kitten and Killian's mother had cried, and Maya had taken a wooden spoon to his backside.

Maya Hansen was the housekeeper for the tattered Killian family, but she had more spine than either of her employers and Killian found that he wanted to cut that spine out of her. That would have to wait, of course, but he doesn't forget that spanking or the rush of pleasure he'd felt when he heard the screams.

He got better at hiding his kills as he got older; he built traps in the woods behind his house and caught all kinds of small game. When he was sixteen and his hormones really began to surge, he learned that the pleasure he felt while killing was called lust. That same year, he learned that lust led to orgasms when the thing you killed was a person.

It was surprisingly easy to do it, Maya and his mother were both out shopping while Killian remained at home. One of the young prostitutes that lived with them was a large girl, but pretty and shared sweets with him whenever Maya said he couldn't have any. Regina trusted him, which was why it was so easy to get her in his room, why it was so easy to make her put on a blindfold and hold still.

He promised that he had a surprise for her since she was his best friend and wasn't the kitchen knife a big surprise for poor Regina? It sunk into her neck with little resistance, warm blood gushing over his hand when he pulled the knife out. The handle was slick and he cut himself, but he kept stabbing until he'd ruined his trousers and Regina lay still on the floor.

Killian didn't clean the mess, just set the knife in the kitchen sink and waited to hear Maya's anguished screams before he took off. He found the transient lifestyle was best for his hobbies, but he eventually ended up home again when he was thirty and his bones started to ache in the winter.

His mother opened the door and recognized her baby boy even through the grime and the beard, opening her arms to him. He shot her in the head with a smile and continued farther into the house to find Maya. He cut her spine out just like he'd dreamed of doing when he was a child and the police found the bloody mess two days later.

He was admitted to Birch Psychiatric Hospital, where he eventually went insane. He scratched at his cell's walls so violently, that his fingernails were torn completely off, making his hands claw-like. When Killian attacked a nurse, the doctors decided to put him in a straitjacket and tightened it whenever he acted out, contorting his limbs horribly. However, Killian gnawed through it, so the doctors locked his head in a scold's bridle and threw him in a dark basement cell.

He died years later in a fire set by another inmate, he hadn't even tried to leave the basement room.

**The Family**

There was a time when Bucky Barnes' life was so picture-perfect that Norman Rockwell would have been green with envy. He was a university professor, his wife stayed at home with the kids, his daughter was looking at a bright future attending Harvard while his son was slowly mastering his grasp on verbs. Just perfect.

Now Bucky Barnes wakes up in a bedroom just large enough for a full-sized bed, a desk, and a dresser. His picture-perfect life has burned to cinders and he doesn't have the energy needed to rebuild it from the ground up. The walls of his room are yellowed with age and covered in his son's drawings, morbid things depicting different ways a person could die.

It's a knock at the door that drags Bucky out of his thoughts, the door opening just enough for Darcy to poke her head inside. With her tired smile comes the sound of cartoons and the smell of burning food.

"It's almost eight, Dad," she says with a tinge of apology. "You'll be late to your first class if you don't get up."

"Roger that," he says. Darcy studies him for a moment, then gives him a sharp nod and shuts the door again. The sound is muffled, but he can still hear the morning routine playing out. No longer is it laughter and talk of schedules, now it's chaos with different voices demanding others to move it or lose it.

Bucky sighs and forces himself to get out of bed, pulling on a button-down and khakis before shuffling down the short hall to the kitchenette. Darcy is standing at the stove, watching the eggs burn and the bacon grease pop; Steve is seated at the table with an old tape recorder, listing the deaths from the newspaper; Clint is seated next to him, a coffee cup in his hand.

"Today on Death in LA," Steve says into the recorder," a body was found this morning, de-colopolated." Clint cracks up, patting Steve on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Decapitated," he says, running his finger across his throat. Steve nods, adding the word to the ever-growing pile of technical terms for him to study. A few words have been crossed out since yesterday—suffocation and dismemberment. At least these words make the spelling list his teacher sends home weekly a piece of cake. If he can spell Decomposition without issue, then he can spell hinge.

"Morning, guys," Bucky greets. Clint grunts and hands him the coffee cup, Bucky taking a long drink from it. It's bitter, not the fancy brand Natasha had insisted on once upon a time, but it does the job of waking him up.

"Dad, they found a guy without a head behind Dunkin' Donuts," Steve says excitedly.

"Oh, I love Dunkin' Donuts." Maybe he'll pick up the kids early from school and take them there as a special treat. He's not making the salary he used to, but they deserve something for being so good these past months.

"Dad, tell Stevie to get a healthier hobby," Darcy says.

"Dad, tell Darcy that keeping a record of death is healthy," Steve returns. Bucky and Natasha had been so happy that they had smart kids, but now it's just Bucky and he's starting to realize that he's raising smartasses.

"Darcy, keeping a record of death is healthy," he says. Darcy makes a face, shoveling eggs onto the three plates set out on the counter. "Are you eating? Don't think I haven't noticed the way you just push food around at dinner." Darcy nods her head like this is a speech she's heard a thousand times, making a show of tearing into the bacon. "Don't be an ass about it."

"She's a _slut_."

"No, honey, sluts are people with loose sex morals," Clint corrects. "You're sister's being a bitch." Steve grins and turns in his seat to poke his tongue out. Darcy points a fork at him in warning.

"Call me a bitch and I'll put you on toilet duty," she warns. Steve doesn't look daunted by the chore, but he does face the table again and shares a look with Clint. The pair have grown close and Bucky really hopes he can scrape the cash together for Clint's paycheck.

"Alright, that's enough," Bucky says in a firm tone. "Darcy, do you have your book report done?"

"Yeah, I finished it last night."

"Stevie, what about you? Did you get your science project done? The fair is in two days and I don't feel like tripping over you in the middle of the night because you forgot to do something." Steve's eyes go wide and he mutters something about his backboard before sprinting out of the kitchenette. "Good thing I reminded him, huh?"

"He's a smart kid," Clint shrugs. "He's gonna get first place with his volcano and Harvard is going to scoop him up like they're trying to do the sourpuss over there." Darcy makes a face, tossing her plate of eggs into the trash bin under the sink. "You do realize that eggs taste better when they aren't black, right?"

"I'd like to see you do better," Darcy snaps. Clint raises his brows and looks ready to prove a point when there's a knock on the front door. The entire apartment goes dead silent, all eyes going to the door. The white paint is flaking off, the frame is slightly crooked after the last earthquake, and nothing good ever comes from early morning visitors. "Dad, is that another debt collector?"

"It shouldn't be," Bucky murmurs. It takes him a full minute to remember the phone call he'd gotten yesterday, the stuffy lawyer in charge of crazy Uncle Obie's estate. "Christ, it's the lawyer."

"What lawyer? Are we getting sued?"

"No, honey." At least, he sure as shit hopes not. He opens the door with dread curling in his belly, finding a well-dressed man on the other side. His designer suit looks woefully out of place in the hall with the graffiti sprayed over the walls and the crooked bulletin board offering rewards for pets long since gone.

"Mister Barnes," the lawyer checks.

"That's right." He holds out a hand on instinct, all too aware of how sweaty his palm must be compared to the dry grasp of the other man. "I'm sorry, I can't remember your name."

"Rumlow."

"Don't you have a first name," Darcy asks. Rumlow lets out a sound that might be classified as a laugh, but it just sounds choked to Bucky's ears.

"I'm assuming that everyone does."

"Are you here to kick us out," Steve asks. At some point between the knock and Bucky opening the door, Steve had wandered over to Clint and now has Clint's arm draped protectively around his shoulders.

"No, I'm not that kind of lawyer." Rumlow's eyes seem to take in every minute detail of the kitchenette, a judging weight around Bucky's neck. "Is now a bad time?"

"It's as good a time as any," Bucky says before his children can think up something witty. "Please, come in." Rumlow steps inside, heading straight for the kitchen table and setting his briefcase down. The leather of it looks supple and it's sure to be ruined if it stays in that puddle of apple juice for long.

"I represent the estate of your uncle Obadiah Stane." He sits in the only vacant chair left, pulling out a laptop. He doesn't seem comfortable as everyone gathers around him, obviously used to having personal space. The Barnes family doesn't buy into that, if you want personal space you'll have to go to the laundry room.

"We have an Uncle Obie," Darcy asks dubiously.

"We had one, yeah," Bucky nods. "He wasn't too popular with the rest of the family. My dad said he squandered the family fortune." Darcy perks up at that.

"We have a family fortune?"

"Did you miss the bit where I said Obie squandered it?" The perk turns into a slouch that drives one bony elbow into Rumlow's ribs. The lawyer grunts but doesn't say anything, pulling up a box on his laptop.

"Obie recorded this message six weeks ago," he says, hitting the fullscreen option on the box. "He asked that it be played for you in the event of his death." He presses the spacebar and the video starts playing, revealing Obie seated at a desk in an office.

"James," Obie greets," it's good to talk to you. Sadly, if you're watching this now, it means I'm no longer among the living. Happily, that makes you and your family my sole beneficiaries. I've instructed my lawyer to deliver the essential elements in my last will and testament. Give it to them, Brock." Rumlow pulls a key out of his pocket, holding the misshapen thing up for Bucky to take.

"A key," Darcy asks, snatching it out of his hand to study it. The shaft of it is broad with a golden sheen, a strange design carved into the top and bottom of it. "What the hell's it for?"

"It's for your new house." All eyes go back to the screen, taking in the odd background Obie is sitting in front of. It looks like green-tinted glass, white writing scribbled over the front and back of it. "This house is the fruit of my life's work." The video box shifts to the bottom right corner while three other frames fill up the screen, changing every now and then to show different parts of the house. The walls all look like the one in Obie's office, but the furniture is expensive, sturdy things. When the photos shift again to reveal bathrooms, Darcy practically begins to vibrate with excitement.

"Everyone gets their own bathrooms," she hisses excitedly. There's only one bathroom in the apartment and no one abides by the five minute rule. Extra bathrooms are like pizza after a long diet.

"Is this for real," Bucky asks in a whisper.

"It is a one-of-a-kind home," Obie continues. "It's my home, actually. I have no complaints, I've led an interesting life, I have seen some amazing things." All the videos disappear for a split second and then Obie reappears in the direct center. "The only regret I have is that I never really got to know my nephew, nor appreciate the love of a family like you have. This house is my attempt to make up for that. Perhaps we'll meet again in another life."

When the video box disappears this time it doesn't come back, revealing a disturbing wallpaper. It's all geometrical shapes with zombified faces sketched behind them. Rumlow shuts the laptop before Bucky can really study it.

"When can we see it," Darcy asks.

"The house is yours whenever you'd like," Rumlow replies. "Actually, I'm heading up there after work if you and your husband and kids would like to tag along." Clint makes a protesting noise and holds up a hand, shaking his head.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says loudly," time-out. I am _not_ the Mister here."

"Uh," Bucky says, looking pained," my wife, uh... M-my wife is..."

"Our mom got burned to death in a fire," Steve supplies. He sounds torn up about it even after six months, Bucky suspects that wound will stay raw for a long time. Instead of getting onto Steve for his bluntness, Bucky faces the lawyer again.

"Where exactly is this place?"

"Just a couple of hours drive from here depending on traffic," Rumlow tells him as he puts the laptop back into his briefcase. "It's on the outskirts of Willow Grove, just up the Parkway. It's in a gorgeous area, but I have to warn you, your uncle liked his privacy. There isn't a neighbor for miles."

"Well, I guess we'd better check it out."

**The Torso**

Loki Laufeyson didn't have a privileged life, he grew up in a poor neighborhood in the aftermath of Katrina. He thought a college scholarship would get him away from the wreckage and his mother's hands. He joined a fraternity because he thought it would earn him friends.

Loki Laufeyson didn't live long enough to enjoy any of it.

He was passing his classes, partying, and enjoying being nineteen. His fraternity brothers did the same, including a boy named Archie Brener. Archie's family was rich in several ways, including a gambling addiction. He gambled away everything his parents gave him until they cut him off, forcing him to grow up. Instead, Archie turned to a loan shark with a propensity for busting kneecaps and hand-delivering cement shoes.

When Archie skipped out on a payment, the loan shark went after his best friend. Loki had just gotten a cup of coffee to help him through a three am study session when he was grabbed and shoved into a trunk. Loki swore he didn't know where Archie was hiding, he didn't know where the money was. They believed him, but they still needed to send a message.

The police found pieces of Loki's body spread throughout New Orleans for a month. The coroner said he was still alive when his limbs were removed. No one heard from Archie Brener again, but there were rumors that he was lying at the bottom of the Gulf.


	3. Ninety-Nine Problems (ghosts are all of them)

**The Hammer**

Nick Fury was a burly, though understanding man. He had a sarcastic smile and the ability to put most renaissance artists to shame when he picked up his hammer. He was a blacksmith, an honest worker, and his rough hands held all the skill in the world as he crafted new things. The people in town treated him with begrudged respect and he was mostly left alone as he and his family walked through the town.

A man named Alexander Pierce was the only person that refused to give him the respect he'd earned. Pierce was a known criminal, but he was white and so didn't have to work too hard to get what he wanted.

One day, after Nick left the Pierce estate, Alexander decided he didn't like the way Nick had sneered when he'd refused to pay him. Everyone knew not to cross Pierce, none had ever been brave enough to do so, but Nick was angry and now Pierce was out for blood.

He went straight to the sheriff, a cowardly man but loyal, and told him he'd seen Nick sneaking some of Pierce's good silverware into his pocket before he left. The sheriff gathered a posse and headed straight for Nick's home, tearing it apart in an attempt to find the missing silverware. They didn't find it, of course, but the accusation lingered all the same.

The sheriff told Nick that he and his family could leave town voluntarily or be driven out. Nick ignored the warning, continuing his work until he came home one night to find his wife and daughter missing. He searched through the town and found them hanging from a tree near dusk. Nick wasn't a violent man by nature, but seeing his family suspended on the limb sent him into a rage.

He took up his blacksmith's hammer and marched straight to Pierce's home, bludgeoning him and the sheriff into bloody messes. The staff ran off, some for safety and others to gather a few men in town and tell them what happened. Nick didn't get far before the group caught up with him, three of them holding him down while the others drove railroad spikes through his body before cutting off his right hand. As a last measure of frontier justice, they strapped his precious hammer to the bloodied stump.

It took Nick Fury three days to fully bleed out, but his rage never dimmed.

**The House**

Bucky didn't know what he was expecting when his distant uncle gifted him a house, but it certainly isn't the glass and iron monstrosity looming out of the fog. Bucky puts his car into park, then he and Darcy are leaning over the dash to get a better look, headlights reflecting off the glass and highlighting white words etched into the panes.

"Holy shit," Steve shouts. Bucky can feel Clint's chin on his shoulder as he and Steve scoot up, the soft warmth of his breath on Bucky's cheek. _God, I really need to get laid_.

"Stevie, don't curse," Bucky admonishes without any real warning behind his words.

"Who's that dude?" He follows Steve's finger and spots a man near the house, his orange jumpsuit practically glowing. Bucky's first thought is that the man escaped from some prison or another and wants to butcher them, then he spots the hardhat and his imagination shifts more towards an electrician that wants to butcher them. Bucky has probably watched one too many horror movies this year.

"Let's go find out."

"What if he's here to butcher us," Darcy asks.

"That's ridiculous, Darcy." He makes a mental note to ban any movie over a PG rating for the next month. The scariest thing his kids will be allowed to watch is that Scooby-Doo movie with the zombies. "Come on, let's find out what's going on." The kids are out of the car before Bucky can get his seatbelt undone and Clint is right behind them, every bit a child at heart.

Rumlow clears his throat as they head up a slope toward the house, getting the attention of the Jumpsuit. The man turns, the beam of his flashlight focused directly in Rumlow's eyes without the slightest bit of sympathy. Jumpsuit actually seems amused at the way Rumlow brings his hand up to shield his eyes.

"About time you all showed up," Jumpsuit says. "This place belong to you?" Rumlow shoves the flashlight away with an irritated noise.

"Who the hell are you?"

"The power guy." Jumpsuit uses the flashlight to highlight a plastic name tag clipped to a breast pocket, Rumlow reaching out to grab it only to have Jumpsuit smack his hand away with the flashlight. Bucky's pretty sure Jumpsuit could do some damage with that thing. "No touching."

"Why are you here?" Rumlow isn't very good at acting pleasant with strangers, his tone drips contempt and Bucky wants to kick at his ankle. He resists the urge, his gaze switching between the adults and the way his kids have their noses pressed against the glass panes closer to the ground. They're gonna need a lot of Windex to keep this place clean.

"I'm here because whoever wired this place was an idiot. This McMansion is knocking out the power of the whole tri-quad area." Jumpsuit's dark hair pokes out from under the hardhat, reflecting lighter brown highlights in the moonlight. "I need to get inside and check the breakers."

"Then come back tomorrow."

"Sure, I can come back tomorrow with about a thousand people in town who are missing the new episode of Kitchen Disasters. I'm sure they'll be happy to talk to you as long as you don't mind them going to town on your fancy car with a few bats." The flashlight is aimed at Rumlow's face again and he's seemed to have learned his lesson about smacking it away.

"I'm insured."

"Shut up, Rumlow," Darcy says, kicking at his ankle. Apparently she inherited more than just her nose from Bucky. He's so proud. "I'm sure it'll be okay if he looks at the breaker box."

"Kid's got better manners than you do," Jumpsuit says.

"The kid has a name. I'm Darcy." She doesn't hold out her hand to shake for which Bucky is grateful. He doesn't like the thought of her shaking hands with strange people in the woods.

"I'm Anthony." He nods at Rumlow, sharing a conspiratorial grin with Darcy. "Is this guy always an asshole or am I just lucky?" Darcy's returning smile is full-on scathing and Bucky's surprised when the lawyer doesn't go up in smoke.

"I'm pretty sure he was born that way." Bucky clears his throat pointedly and all eyes turn to him. He doesn't shrink away from the sudden attention, used to it from lecturing all day to bored college kids. At least no one here is stoned or drinking a Nos-laced cup of coffee. "What? You always tell me to be friendlier."

"I was thinking we could continue with the friendliness inside," Bucky says, holding up the key. He's had it in his coat pocket for the entire drive, so the metal is warm between his fingers. "Then you can make fun of Rumlow and our new friend here can check the breaker box." There are no arguments, his family and the two spares gathering behind him as he heads up to the front door.

Just like the rest of the house, the doors are glass with writing etched into them, a diamond-shaped lock holding them closed at an angle. The lock itself is made of steel, a gold circle inlaid at each corner and a larger one around the lock, each with strange symbols etched into the gold. Bucky slides the key into the lock and turns it, letting out a gasp of surprise when it slides out of his grasp.

"Dad, you broke it," Steve whines. Bucky barely hears him, too focused on the sound of mechanisms coming to life, the four circles in the lock's corners turning clockwise. The lights flicker on inside, showing off the furniture Bucky intends to sell the first chance he gets. "Wow, you can see right through it!"

"What, you guys couldn't afford any walls," Tony asks sarcastically.

"Guess Uncle Obie wasn't too keen on privacy," Bucky adds, with a sideways glance in Rumlow's direction. With a whirring click the two glass doors in front of them part, allowing the group inside the initial entryway. It's more like an airlock than anything, a place to wipe your feet before entering the main house. Rumlow closes the doors behind them, triggering the front doors to hiss open and allow everyone inside.

The room beyond the doors is nearly the size of their apartment, the floor designed to look like dark metal with little squares of glass arranged into arrowheads every few feet. There are antiques—manuscripts, swords, old telescopes—showcased on podiums, everything reflected in the glass walls.

"It's like a funhouse," Steve says, gazing around in wonder. Even Clint, normally stoic and deadpan, lights up at all the things to be seen. If this is just the living room, Bucky wonders what Obie might have stored down in the basement. With that thought in mind, Bucky wanders over to a wall and runs his hand over it.

"It's Latin." Clint wanders over to him, slipping his arm through Bucky's. Despite being stoic, he's incredibly tactile. He blames it on Steve's constant need to be hugged.

"Just so we're all clear," Clint says, loud enough for the whole house to hear him. "I don't clean windows." Bucky snorts and looks over at him, taking in the gentle slope of his nose and the curve of his lips.

"Do you clean anything? I think we're keeping you on at this point just to have an extra adult in case of an emergency."

"I don't deal with emergencies either." He winks and walks away, Rumlow and Bucky eyeing the way his hips sway. Bucky feels a flush of shame and glances away quickly, following after Steve instead of his nanny. The wheels of Steve's scooter make soft sounds as they glide over the floor, Steve steering one-handed while holding his tape recorder. Bucky pauses beside a glass case, taking in manuscripts that must be at least a hundred years old, one of them made up of papyrus.

"What an incredible wealth of knowledge," Bucky sighs. He bets a museum would pay top dollar for some of this.

"Oh, cool," Steve says. "A Samurai sword!"

"Don't even think about it, mister. Put it down." There's a faint thump and then the sound of Steve scootering away to find mischief. Much like Clint had earlier, Darcy comes over to Bucky and taps his shoulder to get him away from an old octant plated with gold. He thinks everything in this house had been bought because it was shiny.

"This stuff must be worth a fortune," Darcy says, whispering so that Rumlow doesn't overhear.

"I was just thinking the same thing." The next room they wander into is perfectly square with the floor painted a rustic red with golden shapes. Set in the center of the floor are fifteen gold-plated circles that get increasingly smaller towards the center, little symbols etched into them with painstaking precision.

"It's like a cathedral."

"Anyone who so much as throws a stuffed animal in this house is going to be disowned."

"It really is beautiful, isn't it," Rumlow asks, gazing around in reverence. It's like he's seeing a castle instead of a glass house, dark eyes practically glowing. Maybe that's why Obie hired Rumlow, he seems to like shiny things. Tony, on the other hand, seems entirely nonplussed as he sidles up next to Rumlow.

"You wanna show me where the basement is hidden, so I can get the hell out of here?"

"Down the hall, two doors on the right." Tony sweeps out of the room, Rumlow's distasteful glare trying to burn holes in the back of his head. Bucky's a petty man that gets offended easily, but Rumlow seems to type to judge people by how they dress. Bucky kind of wants to break his nose. Instead of doing that, he scoops his son up before Steve can step on the middle circle that's spinning slowly on the floor.

"Don't touch anything, Stevie," Bucky says, stern. He drops Steve near the edge of the room and pats his head until he's smiling again. Bucky can't stand the thought of his kids not being happy, not after what they've all gone through. "Once we get some property insurance, it's fair game."

"Bucky, we've got some papers to sign in the library. After that, I'd be happy to show you and your family the rest of the house."

"That sounds great." Bucky turns back to the other three, giving them all pointed looks that warn of consequences. "I want you three to stay in this spot, understand? No moving."

"You're being paranoid and overprotective," Darcy says.

"Yeah, of all this stuff. I know you guys too well. You stay right here until I get back or you're all grounded." He follows Rumlow out into the hall and turns in time to spot Darcy and Clint attempting to leave the room, too. "Ah! Stay!" He'll feel bad about treating them like puppies later, right now he's more worried about them breaking something that he can sell on eBay.

"Bucky," Rumlow starts.

"Yeah, I'm coming."

Tony is starting to regret all his life choices as he starts down the basement stairs, the chilled air making goosebumps spread over his arms even through the jumpsuit. When he shuts the door behind him, the only sounds are the slapping of shoes on the steps and a faint rustling in the darkness, illuminated only by the shaky beam of his flashlight. As he reaches ground level Tony can hear a low, angry muttering in all directions that makes him feel like he's surrounded.

"Oh my God," he breathes out, recognizing the familiar cubes. "This is so not gonna end well for me." He knows what Obie keeps trapped in these cages like feral animals, angry spirits with nothing but murder on their minds. _Angry in life and angry in death_ , he thinks. What the hell had Obie been thinking? "Where'd you hide your money, old man?"

Tony makes it past the first two cubes with only a faint throbbing in his temples, but then he's lurching forward in front of the Pilgrimess' cell, clutching at his head in pain. He'd like to say the ghost causes visions of sugarcanes to dance in his head, but it's more like blood staining a straight razor.

"Goddammit." He makes it another few feet before the assault comes again, stumbling under the force and distantly aware of his hardhat tumbling to the floor. He rushes over to the cubes, taking in the signs etched into the glass with nothing short of panic. They all have heavy cords plugged into them that remind Tony of snakes in tall grass, the coils leading up to the ceiling and then farther down the hall.

Tony jerks violently, one of his hands shooting up to cover his face before his legs give out. He can see all of them, each unhinged spirit pacing their cage and aching for violence. The blue-toned visions show each of their faces; railroad spikes driven deep into a skull, bloody gashes bisecting a gorgeous face, angry burns that never got the chance to heal.

He pulls on the spectral viewers, able to see the ghosts in full technicolor, all together like some kind of grisly family reunion. The cubes run the length of the short hall, six on either side, with each ghost glaring over at him like he's the reason they're stuck here. He supposes it is partly his fault, he'd helped Obie find them after all.

"Screw this," he gasps, forcing himself back to his feet.

The library is just as beautiful as the rest of the house, books lining the shelves against three walls while other knickknacks have been arranged on low pedestals. Bucky runs his fingers along the barrel of an old-fashioned rifle, no sign of corrosion to be found on the metal scope attached to it.

"Was Obie a hunter?"

"Of a kind," Rumlow nods. "Your uncle was quite the collector." Bucky takes this to mean that his uncle was a hoarder. Gazing around at all the things stuffed in this room alone, he pegs Obie as a magpie. "I've marked where you're supposed to sign." Rumlow sets the papers out on a long table, colorful tabs stuck to them.

"That's great, but…." Bucky sighs as exhaustion weighs on him, shrugging off his jacket and setting it on the back of a chair. "This place is beyond amazing, but I'm just a history professor. I mean, the taxes alone—"

"Bucky, you don't need to worry. Obie was a genius when it came to finances. Basically, you and your family don't ever have to worry about money again." Bucky doesn't like the way Rumlow said that, the dark undertone that colored the words. It's like he doesn't expect Bucky to make it out of here alive. "All you have to do is sign."

Bucky's got the pen in hand when Tony comes sliding into the room, the soles of his shoes leaving a black streak on the glass floor. He looks horrified, his eyes wide and his cheeks drained of color as he bends over in an attempt to get his breath back.

"Don't sign shit," he says, breathless. "Don't— Jesus, I need to start working out again." It's another minute before Tony can straighten up again, a fine tremor in his hands as he squeezes the back of a chair. "We gotta talk about this house."

"What is the deal with the breakers," Bucky asks in annoyance, looking to Rumlow for the answer. Rumlow shrugs his shoulders, as confused and irritated as Bucky with some anger mixed in.

"There's nothing wrong with the breakers. I'm not the power guy. My name is Tony Stark."

" _You're_ Tony Stark," Rumlow interrupts, taking a step forward.

"Who's Tony Stark," Bucky asks.

"My office warned me about him." Tony rounds the table so that he's standing closer to Bucky than Rumlow, wisps of his hair sticking to the perspiration at his temples. Bucky turns so he can follow Tony as he heads back to his original position at the head of the table. He paces anxiously like he'd get dragged to hell if he stopped.

"This is going to sound completely whacked, so just stay with me," Tony warns. "Obie and I have been working together for the past year or so. We used to hunt displaced spiritual energies." At Bucky's uncomprehending look, he attempts to dumb it down a little. "You know, P.K. Agents, wraiths…." Tony sighs when Bucky still doesn't get it, giving him the same flat look that Clint gives him whenever he forgets to wash his socks. "Ghosts, man, we hunted ghosts." There's a tense silence as Bucky tries to process this, deciding he must have heard wrong because ghosts don't exist.

"You hunted goats?"

"Ghosts! Ghosts, goddammit!"

"Right, ghosts…." Bucky lets out a nervous chuckle, sharing a look with Rumlow. "I get it, I'm scared." This has to be some sort of prank because it's genuinely terrifying otherwise. If this isn't a prank then this crazy guy might actually be here to murder them all. Rumlow joins him in laughing, but Tony's hurt expression makes Bucky's trail off.

"I would love to fill you in on the nitty-gritty of the situation, let you both know what kind of fucking monsters are lounging in the basement, but I won't do it in this house!" Rumlow turns his attention to Bucky, pointing an accusing finger in Tony's direction.

"This guy has been harassing my office since your uncle died," he says. "I see this all the time; some rich guy passes away and all the _nuts_ come out! Next thing you know, he'll be claiming Obie owed him money."

"He did owe me money," Tony yells, straightening up from where he'd doubled over. "He owed me a _shitload_ of money! But, you know what? I'd rather be alive than rich, so I'm getting my ass out of the big glass house! Grab your children, do the same!" Tony's just turning to leave when he goes rigid, back straightening so fast that Bucky swears he hears something pop.

"Are you okay," Bucky asks worriedly. Tony doubles over, one hand against a chair to keep him upright as he lets out a punched-out grunt. After having kids around for eighteen years, it's second nature for Bucky to stride over and check on Tony. He puts a hand on his shoulder and Tony tumbles to the ground, seizing. "Call an ambulance!" Bucky stays hunched over him, a hand between his shoulder blades.

"Don't touch me." The words come out slurred and barely heard, but Bucky draws his hand back all the same. Tony goes still, the seizure over and leaving him a shaking mess.

"We're gonna get you some help."

"Just don't touch me." After a couple of deep breaths, Tony can sit up by himself, using the sleeve of his jumpsuit to wipe the drool off his chin.

"How's your head?"

"Not good," Tony answers, rubbing at it. "Where's the suit?" Bucky follows his gaze around the room, but Rumlow has disappeared. Maybe he went outside to call for an ambulance like Bucky had told him or maybe he ran off to steal some shit while Bucky was distracted. At this point, Bucky just wants to get Tony to a hospital and be done with the house.

"Who gives a shit? Let's get you out of here."

Rumlow has been to Obie's house enough times to be comfortable walking around on his own, practically skipping down a basement hallway. With the spectral viewers on, he can see each and every ghost trapped behind the glass walls. The Latin etchings glow white on the walls and under his feet, brought into stark relief thanks to the glasses.

"Power guy," Rumlow mutters, shaking his head. "Idiot." On his left, the Torn Prince is giving him a bloody smile with a baseball bat clutched in his hand. He brings it back over his shoulder and swings at the glass. "Think you're a little badass?"

"I think I'm a bigger badass than you are," the Prince says, teeth stained red. Rumlow scoffs and continues down the hall. Next to the Prince's cell is the Firstborn Son, a little boy with an arrow between his eyes, thin streams of blood rolling down his cheeks like tears. Near the first curve in a cell on Rumlow's right is the Angry Princess, bare to the world with her perfect body carved up.

"Nice tits." She lunges at the glass, slashing her nails over it with a scream that sends Rumlow lurching backward. "Don't act like that, honey. You'd be prettier if you smiled." She snarls at him, grabbing the knife her boyfriend had used to butcher her.

He continues down the hall until he reaches a dead-end, pressing a small button near the bottom of the glass panel that has it sliding out of the way. Directly ahead of him and taking up a large portion of the room is an hourglass-shaped mishmash of gears and rings that powers the house, the gears turning like clockwork. Near that, against one wall, a pendulum swings back and forth over twelve thin sections of glass, the symbols of the Black Zodiac carved beneath each section. Thirteen is missing, but they'll have that soon enough.

Rumlow's grin is a vicious thing when he spots the suitcase Obie had promised him. He strides through the room and plucks it from the ground, too busy looking over the stacks of cash inside it to notice that the peddle it had been set on has popped up and the rings of the hourglass have started to move. Why should he care to notice any of that when this cash means he'll never have to work again?

"Not bad for an hourly wage." Satisfied, he steps out into the hall again and pauses to watch the panels shift. He's never seen this happen before and Obie had never told him about it, but maybe it's normal. Maybe the panels shift at a certain time to fuck with the ghosts. All the same, he has a sudden urge to get the fuck out while he still can. Rumlow manages to get halfway down the hall when the Angry Princess steps out in front of him, that knife still clutched in a bloody fist.

"Still want me to smile," she asks. Rumlow takes a step back with every step she takes toward him, holding up his free hand in surrender.

"I'm sorry."

"You're going to be." He wants to run, but his legs have turned to jelly. This isn't how he's supposed to die, this isn't _where_ he's supposed to die. He doesn't want to be stuck down here for all eternity with these animals and those stupid spells. "Boo!" Rumlow jumps backward and would have stumbled had two panels of glass not caught him.

He's gone before the two halves of him slide to the floor, cash fluttering around him.

**The Bound Woman**

Gamora Zen was the daughter of the richest couple in town, making her the most popular girl in high school. She was also in the cheerleading squad, possibly, and presumably the leader. But her most defining feature was her infidelity, seducing many men and simply tossing them away, her friends always warning her she would regret it someday.

During her school prom, she was dating the captain of the football team, Magus Warlock, but once again she cheated on him with another boy, only this time Magus had his revenge.

The following day, the other boy was found clubbed to death, and Gamora went missing. She was later found buried under the 50-yard line in the local football field, bound with ropes and strangled to death.

Arrested and getting the death penalty, Magus' last words were "That bitch broke my heart, so I broke her neck."


	4. It Could be Worse

**The Great Child and the Dire Mother**

Meredith Quill was a beautiful woman with a smile made of pure light and love that could blind anyone. She grew up in a small Missouri town and worked as a waitress until she met the man she'd later marry. Meredith and Ego would often take long drives to the woods, then they'd walk and talk and love each other. They even had a son together, little Peter growing up strong and healthy.

On Peter's eighth birthday, the family piled into their old station wagon and trundled out to the woods behind the Waffle House. They trek through them without a problem, Peter running ahead while Ego and Meredith kept up a slow pace. When Peter was out of sight, a strong hand shoved Meredith to her knees.

Meredith, unaware that the hand belonged to her husband (unaware or in denial, it was never found out), cried as she felt the barrel of a revolver pressed against the back of her skull. She offered the attacker money, but the man only responded by pulling the trigger. She dropped with a scream, a searing pain rippling through her torso as the bullet tore through her shoulder. She offered him the keys to the Waffle House cash register. He responded by shooting her in the stomach.

A boot flipped her onto her back so she could see her husband standing over her with the revolver clasped in his hand. She was forced to watch as he reloaded, dropping two bullets into the cylinder and shooting her once in the heart. She never learned why he'd done this and no one ever found her, but there was an article in the paper a few days later showing hers and Peter's smiling faces. The headline read _missing_ in big, bold letters.

**The Basement**

Clint isn't going to lie, he loves his job. He can't cook and he's not particularly good at cleaning up messes, but kids love him and their parents love looking at him. Bucky Barnes is only different from those other parents in one way: he's never tried to touch Clint. Well, he does touch him—the Barnes are a tactile bunch—but he's never tried to _touch_ him touch him. His dick has remained in his pants is the point Clint's trying to get across here. That's why he's still with this ragtag family, wandering around a glass house in the middle of the woods.

"Are you sure Dad won't get mad at us for being up here," Steve asks. He's pouting because he had to carry his scooter upstairs. Clint had given him plenty of warning that he'd be the one carrying the damn thing around if he brought it with them.

"If he says anything, we'll blame your sister." The sullen pout melts into a grin that makes Clint happier than it should. He's supposed to distance himself from these kids in case he's fired or quits, but he can't help it. He loves Steve and Darcy.

"That's a good idea."

"Mm, I recommend it highly." Steve's laughter is like bells, bouncing off the glass walls as they go down a short hall. Darcy had disappeared into a bedroom five minutes ago, so Clint's not too worried about her finding out their backup plan is to blame her.

"Oh, cool! Look at all the toys!" Steve darts into a bedroom on the left and Clint follows, taking in the large bed with the firetruck-red bedspread, glass shelves that are covered with toys and comic books, and an attached bathroom. It's a bedroom designed with children in mind, which is odd when you remember Obediah Stane didn't have any children. "I call dibs on this room."

"You can have it, Stevie. I'll take one with a jacuzzi tub." He'd lounge in that tub for hours, eating strawberries and reading trashy romance books. Clint sighs at the thought, letting his gaze wander about the room. His eyes catch on a pair of glasses on a shelf over Steve's head, seemingly made of clear plastic with a single light on the outside of the lenses. "Oh, rad."

"What?" He slides the glasses on, doing a little pose when Steve looks up at him. "Hey, those are mine."

"How do you figure?"

"They were in my room." Steve stands up and looks about ready to start throwing a tantrum, so Clint hands them to him to cut it off. The fewer screaming fits, the better his eardrums like him. He'd love to not have to buy a new set of hearing aids, thanks very much. "Oh, cool! It makes the words on the wall light up!" Clint pouts this time, but he gives Steve's pale hair a fond ruffle.

"There better be a pair of those in my room or I'm stealing them back."

"Fight you for them."

"Thanks, but I'd rather stay out of jail or the grave your father would dig for me out back. They'd never find my body out in these woods." Steve frowns, seeming to think this over for a long while. When he looks up at Clint again, his blue eyes spark with mischief.

"I'd put flowers on your grave every Sunday." Clint gives the kid a playful shove, smiling all the while. Steve laughs again, then he's unfolding the scooter and taking off down the hall. Clint does his best to keep up, but Steve is fast for how small he is, zipping into different rooms and down the halls until Clint can't even hear the rubber wheels on glass tiles anymore.

"Oh, Bucky's gonna take off his arm just to beat me over the head with it." Clint's just about to check downstairs when a grinding sound makes him pause, the metal panels outside the house shifting and sliding until the view of the yard is entirely blocked out. "That can't be good." Clint rounds another corner in time to spot Bucky up ahead, his brow furrowed in an impressive scowl that even Darcy wilts under.

"He's with Clint," Darcy's saying, yanking her arm out of Bucky's hold. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to realize who they're talking about since the only missing person is Steve.

"He _was_ with me, but he ran off."

"You're supposed to watch him," Bucky snaps, angrier than Clint's ever seen him. "That's what I pay you for!" Bucky storms away with an expression like a thunderstorm, easily finding the stairs that'll take them back to the first floor. "I'll find Stevie, but I want you two out of here." Clint tries to protest but Bucky throws up a hand to cut him off. "I don't want Darcy by herself and I know you can knock just about anyone on their ass, Clint."

Which, yeah, that's about accurate.

"But—" Bucky spins to face Darcy once they're back to the first floor, some of that thunder softening into something more familiar. Bucky never gets truly pissed off at his kids, nothing worse than a few scoldings or the time-out stool if they've been particularly bad (Clint himself has had to sit on the time-out stool after teaching Steve the word _motherfucker_ ).

"No buts. I want you guys to wait in the car, I'll be out as soon as I find Steve."

"Why are you freaking out?"

"Darcy, just this once, don't argue with me." It's not until they nearly run into a wall that they realize the door has disappeared. "What the hell?"

"Did we take a wrong turn?"

"No, there's that same suit of armor from before," Clint says, pointing. He bets he'd look like a total badass in that armor, but he's not chancing bringing down the value of it. If that thing sells for even half the price Clint's imagining, the Barnes family would be set for at least two generations.

"Move away from the glass, I'm gonna break it," Bucky orders. Clint drags Darcy away from the wall as Bucky picks up an antique desk chair and hurls it against the window. The wood cracks with a sound like breaking bone, splinters spilling across the floor in a torrent. The glass, meanwhile, doesn't even have a scratch.

"Is your whole family full of drama queens," asks Jumpsuit. Except he's not wearing a jumpsuit anymore, he's wearing a pair of jeans and an AC/DC tee that's actually old and not just bought to look like it. He's planted his ass in a chair out of the way, rubbing his temple with an orange prescription bottle. "You're wasting your time, Bucky. It's all sealed up."

"What do you mean it's sealed shut?"

"What part of that code are you having trouble cracking? I looked for another way out, but I couldn't find one down here."

"Then we'll look again after we've found Steve."

"That's sweet, but I think I'll wait right here." Tony's eyes slide shut and Clint briefly considers kicking him in the crotch. "Kick me and I'll frame you for cyber crimes, blondie." Clint scowls and shares a curious glance with Bucky, the other man mouthing _psychic_ at him. Fucking fantastic.

"Look, I don't know what the hell's going on and I don't know who the hell you are, but my son is missing." Bucky's voice is a little tremulous when he speaks again, anxiety and a bone-deep fear making his hard edges go blurry. "Until my questions are answered and my boy is found, you're not leaving my sight. Now _get up_." Tony looks up at Bucky for a long while, dark eyes moving from Bucky's shaggy hair to his biker boots and then back to the grim, desperate light in his eyes.

"Fine, but I want it on record that I'm not happy about this."

"Noted, Stark." They're heading farther in the house when Clint realizes there's someone other than Steve missing. The lawyer, creepy as he is, is nowhere to be found.

"Hey, did the lawyer split," he asks.

Steve moves slowly through the basement, head on a swivel as voices hiss and whisper at him. He's ninety percent certain that Darcy and Clint are down here messing with him, but there's still that ten percent that says he's about to get eaten by the boogeyman.

"Stevie," a voice calls, feminine and soft. He thinks it might be coming from up ahead, but it's hard to tell as it bounces crazily off the glass. "Stevie, come play with me!" Steve speeds up, convinced now that his sister is messing with him. He figures if he gets his scooter to go faster, then he can run over her toes with it and then tell his dad that he just lost control.

"Darcy, come on," he yells petulantly. "Stop hiding or I'm gonna tell dad!" He comes to a stop, gazing around for any sign of his sister. With all this glass it should be easy to spot her, but Darcy's always been the best at hide and seek.

"Don't turn around, Steve," a new voice whispers. His heart stutters in his chest and his fingers tighten around the handlebars because he _knows_ that voice. That voice used to read his bedtime stories and silly jokes, that voice taught him how to tie his shoes. He turns, expecting to find his mommy, but he finds something far more horrible than his imagination could conjure instead.

There's a woman behind him in a rotting prom dress, her hair dyed purple-red and hanging limply around a face crawling with maggots. Her hands are bound behind her back and there's a man's tie around her broken neck and Steve has an almost overwhelming urge to puke. Fight or flight is a wonderful thing, though, because he takes off as she starts to convulse.

"Daddy," he screams. "Daddy, help!" He goes too fast around the next turn and the scooter slides out from under him. Steve lands hard, driving the breath out of him and leaving him floundering on his butt until he can breathe again. "Da-daddy," he gasps, forcing himself to sit up.

Steve looks behind him, but the monster has vanished or just wasn't in the mood to slow-cook a little boy. Either way, Steve is thankful. He lets out a hard-won breath, grabbing the funny glasses and sliding them on again. The strange writing along the floor glows bright red, but what catches Steve's attention is the torso wrapped in cellophane trying to crawl toward him, a head wrapped up in the same stuff screaming between Steve's splayed ankles.

Steve doesn't even bother with his scooter this time, scrambling to his feet and sprinting away from the ghost. The halls twist and turn and double-back on each other, but he doesn't slow down. When finally he feels safe, he slows enough to look over his shoulder, and that's when he slams into a wall of glass. He's on the floor before he realizes what happened, his cheek throbbing and his recorder lying a few feet away where it must have fallen out of his pocket.

"You need to put on your glasses, baby," that voice says again, the voice that means comfort and warm milk and sunshine. "Put on your glasses and go find Daddy." Steve stands up slowly, reaching for the glasses but hesitating to actually put them on again. He doesn't want to see the dead things that live down in the basement. Gathering all his courage, Steve slides the glasses on, and with his heart beating like a hummingbird's, he turns around to find the owner of that voice. The woman at the end of the hall doesn't look much like Steve's mommy anymore, not in a hospital gown with her fingers wrapped around an IV pole for balance. Her vibrant red hair has been singed in places and the left side of her cheek looks a bit like hamburger meat, pink and raw and mangled by flames.

He wants to run forward and wrap her up in a hug, but then another thought strikes him like a pebble to the forehead. What if this isn't really his mommy? What if this is just some mean trick? What if the ghost shuffling toward him wants to turn him into dinner?

Steve turns and runs like hell around the corner and right into the solid chest of a person. He hits the ground again, his head aching as he stares up at the person. It's a man, tall and broad and horrifying. There's no humanity left in his dark eyes, but why should there be? The deep gash along his throat would be enough to kill even Nightwing. A small voice in his head is telling him it's dangerous to fall asleep with a head injury, but Steve passes out all the same.

Around the corner, Natasha howls her rage.

Tony is doing his best to keep up with the Barnes family, but they don't exactly make it easy. They don't take into account that Tony's short or that he's totally fucking terrified to be locked in Obie's house of freaks. They're too busy calling out the name of the missing kid, varying from panicked (Bucky), angry (Darcy), and guilty (Clint).

"Hey, Glass Family Robinson, you're wasting your breath! This whole house is made up of Ectobar Glass. It's shatterproof and soundproof, so your kid might have a hard time hearing you." Clint frowns as they all come to a stop in the hall, running his fingertips over the spells etched into the glass.

"What are these," he asks.

"They're containment spells. Ectoplasmic entities can't cross them. The supernatural has laws to obey just like we do. In the case of ghosts, it's spells; written, spoken, it doesn't matter. They have to obey what the spells tell them." Tony shrugs because this is all old news to him. He remembers being a kid and watching Obie sketch these same designs in a leather-bound notebook, how Obie had given him that dead man's grin and ruffled his hair. Tony wishes he could go back in time and shove Obie's pencil through his neck. No Obie means that Tony might have had a stable life.

"So, what are these spells supposed to do," Darcy asks. Her dark hair has been swept up in a ponytail, but a few curly strands have fallen out and brush her shoulders.

"Right now, they're the only things keeping us alive." She sucks in a breath and steps closer to her dad, fingers grasping at Bucky's sleeve. Tony's gaze flicks down to follow the motion, the black sleeve revealing more of the prosthetic arm with its red and black paint job. Tony thinks it might be a rose or maybe that faint curve with the thick line of black following it is part of a helmet. "Is that a fucking Jason Todd painting?"

"What," Bucky asks, then follows Tony's gaze. He pulls the shirt sleeve up to reveal more of his arm and, yep, that's definitely the helmet Jason Todd wore in the _Outlaws_ comics. There's also a dark blue bat signal, two little Pikachus, a rose with vibrant pink petals, and a dark purple bow and arrow. "My daughter's an artist and my family is made up of nerds."

"That's awesome—"

"Can we get moving now or do you also want to see the wolf tat on my ass?" Tony opens his mouth with a plan to be sarcastic, maybe even a little scathing, but then he processes Bucky's words and he grins wickedly. Bucky Barnes is a wonderful specimen and Tony's all for seeing everything he's got to offer. No touching, of course, having a seizure is a bit of a mood-killer.

"Is that an invitation?" Bucky flushes a bright pink that nearly matches the rose painted on his arm, twisting his thin lips into a scowl.

"Help us find my brother and you can ogle my dad all you want," Darcy says. Bucky squawks and looks down at her in betrayal, but Darcy only raises a brow. "What? It'll motivate that weirdo and you need to get laid." Darcy makes it all of two steps before she stops and spins on her heel to face Tony again. "Wait, why would Obie need containment spells in his house?"

"Because there are ghosts in the basement." Darcy's face makes a series of complicated expressions before she gestures vaguely at the floor.

"In _this_ basement?"

"It's more likely than you think. I'll prove it." He pulls out his spectral viewers, ignoring Clint when he says the kid is the proud owner of another pair, and then makes an indignant noise when he steals them right out of Tony's hand.

"What are these things, anyway," Clint asks as they start to walk again. It's hard to focus on anything with Darcy and Bucky shouting, but Tony does his best.

"They're called spectral viewers. It's not exactly an original name but nobody could ever accuse Obie of being original." The hulking mass of malice and daddy issues was basically a walking stereotype, the type of villain that fourth-grade kids think is hiding under their beds waiting to drag them to hell if they get up in the middle of the night.

"I don't see any ghosts."

"That's because they're locked downstairs, Einstein."

"There's more of that crazy spell shit on the floor." Tony frowns and steals the glasses back, slipping them on and kneeling to run his fingers over the newly-revealed spellwork. It's intricate shit, signs that Tony's never seen before all looped together and interconnecting like a beehive. "What are they? Containment spells?"

"I think they're barrier spells. Why would he need more protection?" Tony glances up when Bucky's feet come into view, brown eyes traveling up from worn boots to the stressed way Bucky's twisting his hands together and then to the man's face; finely carved like an Italian Renaissance sculpture.

"Do me a favor and spare me the haunted house bullshit," Bucky says, falling naturally into the Voice™ that frustrated parents everywhere seem to have memorized. Tony is very familiar with that tone, his own father had used it often enough, and hearing it now has him standing automatically. "After we find Stevie and get out of this place, you can ramble all you want about how Casper is hosting a cocktail party in the attic."

"Basement."

" _Whatever_!" Bucky takes off again and the others fall into line behind him, Tony okay with taking the hall that leads toward the library. It's only when Bucky turns unexpectedly to the left, facing the basement stairs, that Tony slams his open palm against the glass wall. The sound is little more than a thud, like a pen falling on soft carpet, but Bucky's muscles lock into place.

"I tell you that there are ghosts down in the basement and that's where you decide to go next? I've got an idea, let's not be _those_ white people, Buck! Let's be smart and—"

"I will break you like a toothpick if you don't shut up about ghosts." Tony's mouth snaps shut with an audible _click_ of teeth, Bucky's glare doing all sorts of things to Tony and only one of them is a fear response. It probably says something about Tony's mental health that being threatened turns him on. Bucky softens at whatever he sees on Tony's face, looking like a worn-down father rather than a soldier. "Look, I'll pay you whatever Obie owes you, but you've gotta help me find my son."

Tony doesn't say or do anything for a long moment, the silence stretching out to uncomfortable lengths until he finally thumps his head against the wall. He doesn't care that he leaves a slick sheen of sweat there or that his breath fogs up the glass because Obie's no longer here to hit him with that damn cane. _Obie's gone_. That, more than anything, gives him some courage.

"Fine," he huffs. Tony rounds the wall and stomps his way down the stairs, shouldering roughly past Bucky. He's sure that the other man really could break him in half, but Tony's past the point of caring.

The group comes to the bottom of the stairs, then moves into the glass-lined passage with Tony in the lead. His head is already starting to throb and there's a tell-tale tingle along his tongue that bodes nothing good. Tingly tongue is usually a warning before the psychic-induced epilepsy makes an appearance. He _really_ doesn't want to have a seizure down here.

"You going to be okay," Bucky asks, stepping up beside him. There's worry in his eyes and it's for more than just Steve. It's something like a shock to know that someone's worried about Tony, like an iced coffee on a brand new laptop.

"Yeah," Tony nods. "Just keep an eye on me, okay?"

"You got it, Tony." Tony nods once and then he's stalking away down another corridor. The four search the empty basement hallways, finding nothing but more glass and shadows. Tony only stops again when they come to an intersection that he doesn't immediately recognize, the throbbing in his temples picking up the pace. "Hang on, Tony."

"Hmm?"

"This place is way too big. We're gonna have to split up. Darcy and I will go to the right, Tony and Clint will go straight ahead, and we'll all meet up right here in five minutes."

"Have you never watched a horror movie, Bucky? You don't just wander around through haunted houses because that's how white people die. What's more, this basement practically screams _enemies of the heir beware_. If we turn the corner and find Tom Riddle chilling with the Torn Prince, then I won't be surprised."

"Just five minutes." Tony takes a deep breath, vision swimming with tears that he stubbornly blinks away. He won't cry in front of total strangers, he _refuses_. Instead, he squares his shoulders and straightens to his full height (not very impressive around these giants, but, dammit, he's trying).

"Fine, but don't touch anything."

**The Torn Prince**

Sam Wilson was born in 1940, and was discovered to be a gifted baseball player in high school, despite his attitude problems and superiority complex. As a destined, all-star player, he was offered first-class scholarships from various colleges, all of them offering him the best opportunity to leave his small town life.

However, fate threw a curve ball when Sam was 17, Johnny, a greaser that challenged him to a drag race, but unbeknownst to Sam, had cut a brake line in his car prior to the event. This, of course, caused Sam to lose control of the car; resulting in an accident which tore a large amount of flesh off of his chest, as well as the right side of his face. This incident quickly ended Sam's life. Sam's body was buried in a plot of earth overlooking the local baseball diamond where he played at.

As a ghost, he still carried his wooden baseball bat and would attack nearly anyone with it. If he couldn't be alive and happy, why should anyone else be?


	5. It's Worse

**The Pilgrimess**

During Colonial times, Maria Hill sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to a New England town in search of a better life, but the tight-knit townsfolk didn't trust outsiders, and Maria became isolated from the rest of the town.

When the town's livestock began to die mysteriously, shortly after her arrival, Maria was accused by the local preacher of witchcraft. She denied the claim, but when the preacher fell ill, the town quickly turned against her and cornered her in a barn. They lit the structure on fire, but Maria emerged, completely unscathed.

Instead of a quick death, Maria was sentenced to a slow, painful death in the stocks, where kids stoned her, women cursed at her and men spat at her until she eventually died of starvation weeks later.

**The Chase**

"Are you alright, Tony," Clint asks, rounding a new corner and leading them farther away from the basement steps.

"Not even remotely, but I'm trying to compartmentalize."

"And how's that working out?"

"It's not." Clint nods, pursing his lips and watching as Tony takes his sweet ass time. If the glorified babysitter doesn't like the pace Tony's setting, then he's more than welcome to lead the way. It'd be a stupid choice considering there's only one pair of spectral viewers between them, though.

"So tell me about the ghost situation."

"They're in the basement."

"Yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and call bullshit on that." Tony scowls and shoves the glasses at the taller man. Clint slips them on, glancing over at one of the containment cubes and appearing entirely too nonplussed. According to the sigil etched into the glass, that cube belongs to the Bound Woman and she's not exactly the prettiest ghost to ever tiptoe through the tulips. "I'm not seeing anything, man."

"What? Gimme." Tony snatches the glasses back and puts them on before turning to face the cube. The glass walls are flecked with phantom blood and a few maggots are wriggling on the floor (which, ew), but Gamora is nowhere to be seen. That's about when he notices the door to the cube is open and the panic really starts to dig its claws in. "Oh shit…."

"What?" Tony turns and presses his face close to the opposite cube, only to flail and nearly overbalance when Fury slams his hammer against the glass with a roar of agony.

"Son of a bitch! I hate it when they do that!"

"Do what?"

"They wait for you to press your face right up against the glass and then they give you a big, fat _boo_!" Tony passes him the glasses, taking the tiniest bit of pleasure when Clint jumps back against Gamora's cube. Fury, aka the Hammer, is a horrifying, heart-wrenching sight; six feet of lithe muscle with railroad spikes driven through his skull, neck, and shoulders, his dark eyes filled with pain and rage and resentment.

"It's- It's a—"

"A ghost, yeah," Tony nods. "If you think he's spooky behind glass, then you would'a shit yourself when he had free range at that chicken farm." Tony had hidden under a pile of moldy hay and prayed to a God he didn't believe in to make it out of the dilapidated barn while Obie's men did their best to get Fury into his cube. They lost two people and Tony's pretty sure their bodies are still there.

"Holy mother..."

"There are ghosts around us all the time. Most of them can't hurt us, most of 'em don't _want_ to hurt us, but there are exceptions." Tony doesn't look behind him as he leans against the cube, Fury's gaze almost a palpable thing drilling into the back of his head. "The ones who die a violent death are stuck in that tortured realm, so violence is all they know."

"What's he doing?"

"How should I know? You're hogging the glasses." Clint passes them back and Tony has a vivid flashback to first-grade show and tell when he and Rhodey shared Tony's homemade 3-D glasses. He turns to face the cube again, unsurprised to see Fury etching a note into the glass with a rusted metal spike he'd pulled out of his chest.

 _UR DED_ , the note reads. Tony cocks his head and sidles up to the glass again, acting tough.

"Still mad at me for putting you here, huh? You gotta let that go, man." Fury bares his teeth in a silent snarl, the glass keeping all his growls stuck inside the cube. He mouths something that Tony doesn't quite catch, but he's guessing it's not a sweet poem. "Love you, too, big fella."

"Okay, stop antagonizing the ghost," Clint says, pushing at Tony's shoulder. The blue-tinted vision doesn't hit all at once, but it's creeping up close, a dense pressure behind his eyes that makes his headache that much worse. He groans, stepping away from Clint and giving Fury the bird. That's when the vision hits; Fury out of his cube and flinging Tony around like a ragdoll, knocking him against glass walls until Tony's a bloody mess. He hits the floor in the vision, consciousness and life fading from his eyes and blood dripping across a ruined cheek.

Tony jerks backward, the vision clearing so that things are back to normal.

Behind the thin pane of glass, Fury smiles.

"Come on, Tony," Clint yells. He's a good ten feet away now and Tony rushes to catch up. There's no way in hell that he's being left alone down here. There are too many ghosts ready and willing to turn his ass into a shish kabob. "I'm so ready to have this place in my rearview."

"Ditto." They round the next corner at a fast walk, the next empty cube bringing Tony up short. "Oh." Clint pauses when he realizes that Tony has stopped, glancing between him and the empty cube. He doesn't realize why the color has left Tony's cheeks and Tony hopes Clint never has to feel the same wave of horror.

"What now?"

"That's the symbol of the Jackal," Tony says, pointing. The symbol is just as menacing as the spirit, all sharp points and straight edges like a razor. "He's, like, the Charlie Manson of ghosts. If the Jackal's loose, then we need to get the fuck out as soon as we can."

"Then I suggest we find Steve a little bit faster." Tony nods and they take off again at a fast jog, not quite running as they try to navigate the basement. Tony's mostly going off intuition at this point, doing his best to find his way back to the stairs. It'd be easier if the hallways weren't identical, no little map screwed to the wall with _you are here_ and a helpful little arrow.

They come around a corner and Tony curses to find the way blocked by yet more glass. When he gets out of here (after chugging a bottle of tequila), Tony's going to toss anything made of glass in his apartment. He turns to head back the way they came but freezes when he spots the Firstborn Son standing on the ceiling just a few feet away. Little Peter Parker had been a rambunctious boy, but now he's filled with seething rage like all the other spirits trapped here.

"Oh, fuck."

"What," Clint hisses.

"We got behind enemy lines. Come on, stay quiet and don't move fast." They back away slowly, taking the left corridor that's mercifully free of ghosts. They don't run again after that and Tony's doing his best to hide just how wide his yellow streak has grown across his back. If this is how Scooby and Shaggy always felt, then Fred is a major douche.

It's a few feet farther, two more corners before Tony spots another ghost. This one is in her birthday suit, covered in deep gashes and holding the knife that killed her. Wanda Maximoff had been beautiful in life, but her corpse isn't half so pretty.

"Clint, stop!" Clint freezes a couple of steps ahead, brows furrowing as he turns to look at Tony. "Don't- Don't move." The Angry Princess leaves droplets of water behind her as she moves, dark hair hanging limply around her shoulders like seaweed. "That way." Tony points a finger to the corridor directly in front of Clint. "That way, dude."

"I can't see shit without the glasses, you idiot!" For just a brief flicker of a second, Tony's tempted to use Clint as a human shield. Then he hears Pepper's voice in his ear like some kind of pissed-off angel on his shoulder and he lets out a groan.

"Well I can see and I think you should go _that way_ —" another jabbing motion toward the corridor "—right now! Go, go, go, go, go!" Clint darts forward and Tony sprints after him, slipping past so that he's in the lead again. "This way, I think."

"You _think_ or you _know_?"

"I'm making this up as I go along, man." The house shifts again, the glass panels sliding from one spot to another as Tony comes to a stop. "Stairs!" He takes a right with Clint at his back, but then the walls are sliding inward and he's forced to go straight ahead and Cint is forced to retreat. "Hey, glasses!" Clint barely catches the spectral viewers, fumbling as he stumbles back. Then the glass wall has slammed shut between them, sealing Tony into a cube. "Perfect."

"You okay in there?"

"I've been better." Actually, this is about the size of his bedroom back home, it's just missing a pile of dirty laundry that may or may not be sentient and a twin-sized bed with a spring that has made itself too comfortable against Tony's kidney. "Is something in here with me?"

"I don't know." Tony hunches his shoulder as pain lances up between his shoulder blades, managing to send Clint a dirty look in spite of it.

"Put the fucking glasses on, genius." Clint slips them on and looks back at the cube right as something hard cracks against the back of Tony's head, dropping him to his knees. "What the fuck was that?"

"Baseball boy!" Which means he's stuck in a cell with the Torn Prince, a baseball junky who had a penchant for drag racing. At least it's not the Jackal. "Roll to the left!" So Tony rolls to the left, his shoulder slamming against the wall and throbbing its protest. "Get up!"

"I'm trying!" He manages to get his feet under him, but then the invisible bat is colliding with his temple and he nearly goes down again. The blow has blood rushing down the side of his face, dripping from his chin to his favorite tee. "What do I do?"

"Duck! Go to the right!" Tony follows the shouted instructions like he's playing some fucked up game of Simon Says, Sam Wilson's bat colliding with the wall in a shower of sparks. "Move! Run!" Clint's pulling on a glass panel, forcing it open just enough for Tony to duck and roll past it. Clint lets go the second Tony is clear, the panel slamming back in place with enough force to behead French royalty.

"I'd kiss you if the thought wasn't disgusting."

"I'd let you if you were my type," Clint says, breathless as he leans against a wall. "You know who you should kiss when we get outta here? Bucky. You're totally his type."

"And what type is that?"

"You're smart and sarcastic, that's pretty much all he looks for. Fair warning, though, he's been known to pop off his arm and throw it at people when they ask for a hand." Tony takes a moment to picture that scenario (he imagines it must be like that scene in _Holes_ when Mister Sir throws a tire iron at Pendansky) and then he collapses in a fit of honest-to-God giggles. "Yeah, it's pretty great."

"God, I can't wait to see that. I'm gonna ask him for a hand the second we're out of here." The giggles die off as Sam hits the wall again right over Tony's head. Tony takes that as the cue to make like a tree and get the fuck out. "Glasses, please."

"Sure thing." Clint hands them back and Tony puts them on before making himself stand on legs about as steady as Jell-O. A couple more turns find them in front of the stairs and Tony has to force himself not to just run up the damn things just in case there's a nasty surprise waiting at the top. If he's going to die, then he'd prefer to do it on silk sheets with Metallica playing in the background and not in a heap at the foot of the stairs.

When he reaches the top, he pokes his head around the corner, looking for any ghoulies or beasties and finding none.

"See anything," Clint asks."

"No." Not that that actually means anything. For all he knows, the Juggernaut is hiding in the deep shadows of the house just waiting to break Tony in half. Clint pops his head up over Tony's shoulder to take a look for himself, age-old instincts kicking into gear. And who knows? Maybe those hearing aids can pick up ghost radio or something.

"Can I count on you not to get me killed?" Clint turns his head to look at Tony, so close that their noses are nearly brushing. He's careful not to actually make any contact and Tony is grateful.

"I guarantee nothing."

"Then just tell me when I'm supposed to scream and run like some b-movie actress." Tony nods as they creep forward, his shoulders a tense line. "If we get out of this alive, I'm demanding a pay raise."

"You think you'll get it?"

"Bucky will probably just buy me a pint of Ben and Jerry's and call it even." Going off Clint's tone, that's not necessarily a bad thing. He gets the feeling that Clint would be happy with a stick of gum just as long as he can stay with the Barnes family. They're almost to the front of the house again when blue tinges Tony's vision, edging in until Tony blinks the vision back. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know." Tony edges forward to the next turn then feels all his muscles lock into place. At the very end is the Great Child and the Dire Mother, a fearsome duo despite their relative lack of size. Meredith and Peter Quill don't need to be huge to take people down, they just need to work together (and the ax Peter's swinging certainly helps with that).

"Tony?"

"Scream and run time," Tony says, breaking his own rules by shoving Clint back. They take a left instead of going forward, trying to stay ahead of the Quill family. They take another sharp turn up ahead and Tony nearly trips trying to go backward, Clint steadying him and screaming as a head pokes out of the floor. In fact, Clint's still screaming (he could put Jamie Lee Curtis to shame) when Tony realizes the head belongs to Justine Hammer.

"Dad," Darcy pleads somewhere behind him," slow down. We don't need to get lost down here." Bucky can hear the fear in her voice, making her sound like the little girl who'd demanded Bucky check her closet every night for the boogeyman. Bucky just keeps going, his heart beating harshly against his ribcage until he's certain it'll break right through like some kind of macabre cartoon.

"Stevie," Bucky calls, desperate. "Steve, are you down here?" He spots something near the end of the hall and races forward, grabbing the little recorder that's practically stuck to his son's hand. Steve doesn't go anywhere without his recorder, not since last Christmas after Tasha— Bucky squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, forcing himself to breathe.

"Dad?"

"It's his—" Bucky can't force the words out, just turns to face his daughter with the recorder in his hand. She's got a pair of glasses held up, identical to the ones Tony had been wearing. Bucky rewinds the tape and then presses play, wincing at the garbled scream that comes out of the plastic speaker. He presses _stop_ just as fast, not wanting to hear his little boy so afraid.

"Dad, listen to me." Darcy moves in front of him so that he's got no choice but to look at her. She's scared, too, her big eyes wide with fear. Bucky wants to draw her against him and protect her from the big, bag world, but his limbs feel like they're made of concrete. "He's gonna be okay. We're gonna find him."

"You're right, baby. Let's keep going." The sooner they find Steve, the sooner they can return to their cramped apartment. Darcy nods like she's thinking the same thing, following closely behind as Bucky leads the way down another hall. They've been moving in relative quiet for five minutes before Darcy speaks up again.

"What if Tony's right? What if there are ghosts down here."

"Do you think about what you're about to say?"

"No, I prefer to be as surprised as everyone else." Which is fair, okay? The Barnes family, past and present, have never been known to have an operational brain-to-mouth filter. They say the first thing that comes to mind and then try their damndest to avoid the consequences. Bucky once told his mother-in-law that her hair was going gray and then slept in a motel for the week of Thanksgiving to avoid having to apologize. "But what if he's right?" Bucky sighs because another thing that's genetic is nagging.

"He's not right." Bucky stops and turns to face his daughter, not liking how pale she is. After this mess is over, they're taking a long vacation to some beach or another so that his kids look a little less like they've been held captive in a dark space all their lives. "There's no such thing as ghosts." Because Darcy lives to prove him wrong, she slips the glasses on and glances up again. "See any ghosts?"

"Yeah…" It comes out as a choked whisper and where there had been fear before, there's now full-on horror. The brown of her eyes is nearly swallowed by her pupils, the little color she has draining away at whatever she sees. Bucky's brows draw together and he follows her gaze to the right, but all he sees is empty air.

"Darcy, I don't see—" Darcy's jerked backward even as he speaks, propelled down the hall by invisible hands. She's got her arms up in front of her face, her scream making something inside of Bucky tear. He sprints after her, forced to watch as she's lifted up a wall and claws tear her shirt to ribbons. "Darcy!"

"Daddy, help! Help!" More scratches appear across one cheek and her neck and shoulders, sets of three that send blood cascading over her chest, soaking into the shredded remains of her shirt. Bucky grabs onto her legs and tries to yank her down, but whatever's holding her up there is strong.

"I can't see it! Where is it?" He bats his good arm at the space in front of his daughter and he's partly surprised when his knuckles crack against a transparent cheekbone. "Get off of her, you bastard! She's just a little girl!" Bucky's still throwing punches when he sees a flash of light in his peripheral, a flare soaring past his face so close that the silver sparks burn his cheek. The flare collides against the wall an inch from Darcy's head and then his daughter is toppling to the ground.

"Daddydaddydaddy—" He collapses beside his daughter, cradling her against him and glaring over her head at the newcomer. The woman is a skinny thing around Bucky's age, her blonde hair cut into a bob and a heavy satchel bumping against an angular hip. "Daddydaddy…."

"I've got you, baby," he breathes, rocking Darcy gently until the rambling stops. "I've got you. It's gonna be okay." He never takes his eyes off the advancing woman, shifting so that Darcy's curled up behind him. If nothing else, he can pop his prosthetic off and whack this woman on the head with it. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'll tell you that when we're not in danger," the woman snaps, yanking on his good hand to get him up. Bucky resists just on principle, but one glance back at where his daughter's blood is smeared over the glass has him getting up. He doesn't bother seeing if Darcy can walk, bringing her up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and following the stranger through the halls.

"Hurry," Darcy screams, beating her fists against Bucky's back. "He's back! He's back!" Bucky doesn't look over his shoulder as he runs because, contrary to Tony's belief, he's not that type of stupid white boy. No, he focuses dead ahead, shifts Darcy into a bridal hold, and keeps running like his life depends on it (because it kind of does).

Bucky nearly falls going around a corner, but the woman jerks him back on track right before a pane of glass slides shut behind them. Whatever's on the other side crashes into the glass, sending out a shower of orange sparks like lightning hitting a transformer. When he's sure the thing isn't getting through, he drops to his knees and settles Darcy down beside him.

She's sobbing again, a violent tremble making her teeth chatter. Bucky doesn't want to see just how many scratches she's got, doesn't want to see how he's failed another child that he's supposed to protect. _Goddamn it_! He's going to burn this fucking house to the ground. Instead of screaming like he wants to, he shrugs off his shirt and helps Darcy into it. He can stand the cold temperature if it means keeping his kid from getting hypothermia. Bucky hunches over her when that's done, keeping her pressed against his chest as he glares over at the stranger.

"Who the hell are you and what the _hell_ was that?"

"I'm Justine Hammer," she says, breathing hard. "I'm in the spirit reclamation business." She correctly interprets Bucky's expression to mean _what in the holy hell are you talking about_ and explains. "I free trapped souls. Obadiah has been—"

"Forget Obie! What in the world are you doing here?"

"Looks like I'm saving your life." Bucky wants to snarl at her that they wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for that stupid lawyer, but Darcy's tugging in his wrist and he drags his gaze back to her. The tears have stopped at some point, leaving clear trails through tacky blood.

"Dad," she whispers, pointing at the glass barrier. "He's still there." Bucky takes the glasses from her, hesitating a moment before pulling them on and turning to stare at the thing that hurt his baby girl. The man, if it had ever been a man, is around Bucky's height and all-around mangled; greasy hair and jaundiced skin, wild eyes, broken teeth, and ragged claws that scratch feverishly at the glass. He's dressed in a tattered straitjacket, a metal cage closed around his head with the front bars bent outward as he snaps at the air.

"He's another one of your uncle's victims."

"Victims," he repeats. Bucky reluctantly looks back to Justine, forcing himself to keep breathing evenly. If he hyperventilates all the way down here, he's likely to just die. "What do you mean?"

"Obadiah had a nasty habit of enslaving souls. That's why I'm here. It doesn't matter whether they're dead or not, they're still people." Darcy sends her a disbelieving stare that's usually followed by some scathing remark or a fist to the mouth. Thankfully for Justine, Darcy's too tired for either option.

"How'd you get in here? Maybe you could help get my daughter out the same way."

"I jumped through an opening while the house was shifting, but it's closed now." Bucky's hope, fragile as it is, dashes against the rocks at the conviction in Justine's voice. If they can't get out of here, then how can he keep his children safe? How can he keep Clint safe? "Here, you need to see this."

"See what?" Justine answers him by pulling a book out of her satchel, bulky and bound in leather that creaks when she opens it. There's a thin, metal disk set into the cover, divided up into small sections and squares similar to the gold-plated disks set in the floor upstairs.

"This is the _Arcanum_. Many people died in the quest for this book" She flips through the pages like she's looking for something specific, Bucky only catching a brief glance at the other pages; parchment with sketches and a few strange symbols drawn on it in thin, black ink. "It was written in the fifteenth century by an astrologer named Basileus. In it, he describes the building of a certain device, one that can see into the future. He wrote it while he was under demonic possession."

"Probably why it never made it on the _Time's_ bestseller list," Darcy grumbles. Justine finds the page she's looking for, filled with a sketch of various gears and mechanical parts, those same strange symbols boxed in at the top of the page.

"I can't believe Obadiah actually built it." Justine is breathless with her reverence like this murder house is a dream come true for her. Bucky kind of wants to kick her, but he restrains himself. "We're in the middle of a machine designed by the Devil and powered by the dead."

"Man, Uncle Obie was a _dick_."

"Look, I don't give a flying fuck about this place or the ghosts in it," Bucky says, slipping back into the firm tone reserved for bullies and Darcy's ninth-grade science teacher. "All I care about is getting my family the hell out of here."

"I came here to set the souls in this house free," Justine says, just as firmly. "If you want out, you've got to help me first." Their staring match lasts far longer than it should and Bucky's the first to blink, shutting his eyes and lowering his head until his chin rests against his chest. He's tired, a bone-deep weariness that he can't seem to shake since Natasha died. If his wife were here, she'd have gotten them out five minutes in just using this chick as a battering ram.

"Darcy, can you walk?" When he doesn't get a response, he looks over at where his daughter's sitting. He starts a little when all he sees is more glass with small droplets of blood dotting the floor, his back straightening out of its hunch to look around. "Darcy? Darcy!" But she's not there to answer him and panic floods his veins. "Where is she?" Bucky jumps to his feet and sprints to the next corner, craning his head to see if Darcy's waiting there.

"We have to get out of here." Justine's breath is warm and sour against his cheek, her bony fingers wrapping around his bicep.

"Not without my daughter!"

"Try telling _him_ that." Bucky follows her gaze to the right, spotting a little boy with an arrow poking through the space between his eyes and a tomahawk grasped in one small hand. "Move straight ahead, slowly." Bucky and Justine creep down the hall until they're out of the boy's sight, then they start to run without caring about the noise they're making.

"Mind telling me which direction I should flee in?"

"Stairs! We need to get out of the basement!" Bucky takes a left up ahead and then a series of rights until he's forced to skid to a stop to keep from running into a wall. He can see the stairs beyond it, can see the thin rays of light falling across the gleaming metal that would take him back to the first floor.

"Dead end. What do we do now, genius?" He looks at her with an impatient sound, but it cuts off in his throat when he sees how intently she's staring at the wall behind him. "What?"

"Back away from the glass _now_." Bucky takes a step away from it and glances over his shoulder to see what she's spotted. There's a tall black man on the other side, dressed in a leather blacksmith's apron with a fuckton of railroad spikes driven into him and a heavy hammer connected to the stump of his wrist.

"Oh, not good." They move back the way they'd come, but the end of the hall is blocked by another sheet of glass and the ghoul in the straitjacket is beating his head against it. "What was he called?"

"He's the Jackal."

"Well, with a name like that he was bound to be a little loony." The flat look Justine sends his way tells Bucky that he's not as funny as he thinks he is. "Let's try this way." They make a right at the corridor, carrying them away from the Jackal and Creepy Extra number three.

"There's a map of the house in here somewhere." Justine hurriedly flips through the pages of her book, hands shaking and concentration split. Bucky can still hear the Jackal's maniacal laughter down the hall and he's seriously considering just throwing the book at the Jackal's head.

"Hurry up!"

"I'm trying!" She flips another page, this one filled with squares drawn in thick lines that make her eyes light up. She taps one square in particular like it's supposed to mean something other than the fact that Bucky had failed geometry. "We need to get to the library, it has protection spells all around it."

"Where's that from here." The finger on the library square leaves the page and points up at the glass ceiling above their heads. "Wonderful."

"I think I can pop a floor panel loose if you can boost me up." Bucky nods, resigned to his role as a human ladder. Justine shoves the _Arcanum_ back in her satchel and brings out a flare, giving him a pointed look. "The flare will deter any ghosts, but there's no guarantee."

"Then I suggest you hurry the fuck up before our dear friend in the straitjacket finds a way past that glass." She drops the flare to the floor, ignoring the way it spits out silver sparks over their boots as she starts to climb. Bucky hoists her up against a support beam, doing his best to keep her stable. "So what's the deal with the flares?"

"Quicksilver disrupts spiritual energy and buys us time to get away."

"How many do you have left?"

"Three."

"Three? You didn't think to bring a whole truck full?"

"I wasn't prepared to give a tour!" The thick panel pops loose with a hiss of air, making a light scratching sound as Justine shoves it aside. She grasps the edge of the hole with one hand and wraps her legs tightly around the beam, so she's got a hand free. "Give me the flare." Bucky grabs it and hands it up to her, watching as she rolls it a couple of feet from where they'll be climbing out of, close enough to grab but not so close as to burn them.

There are voices from somewhere above him, one of them being Justine's, but Bucky's attention has settled on a shifting glass wall that lets the hulking blacksmith into the hall.

"Hey, fuckheads," he yells, trying to climb the beam. "Get me out!"

**The Angry Princess**

Wanda Maximoff had never been happy a day in her life; she sulked as a child, rebelled as a teenager, and became a felon as an adult. She went through a series of boyfriends, each one worse than the last.

After her brother's murder, Wanda went completely off the rails. Her drug use increased and she cut off all contact with her friends and family. It's during that time that she met a darkly handsome man named Darren Cross. Darren seemed like the stereotypical bad boy at first, but then Wanda caught him dismembering a body in their apartment. Instead of calling the cops, Wanda decided to join in.

Their romance continued for a year before Wanda grew bored. She was in the middle of packing her things when Darren came home. She'd explained that they were done, that meth was more exciting than murder. Needless to say, Darren didn't take the news well.

As she was heading for the door, Darren pulled out his knife and set to work. He stabbed her seven times in the back and cut deep gouges in her face. She lived through all of it until the knife plunged through her heart.

Darren left her in their apartment for the landlord to find two weeks later, Rebel Yell blaring from the radio.


	6. Everything Goes Wrong Again Very Rapidly

**The Withered Lover**

It was Christmas and Natasha Barnes had the flu, so she insisted that her husband and their kids camp out at a fancy hotel for the holiday both as a treat for the kids (indoor pool) and a way to keep them from catching the bug.

Being a good mother, she kept a tidy home and a metal divider between her curious son and the fireplace. He's a smart kid, but his common sense is in short supply. She blamed Bucky for that, she also blamed him for Darcy's foul language just because she could. If anyone asked, he also broke the ice maker because she wasn't ready to admit that she wasn't good with tools.

That Christmas morning, one of the burning logs rolled out of the fireplace, knocked the divider aside and came to rest under the tree. Bucky, having had a strange feeling in his chest the whole night, left Steve and Darcy in the hotel room to check on Natasha. He arrived at the burning house shortly before the firemen and he lost an arm dragging her out onto the lawn. The ambulance was quick to arrive and the EMTs knew what they were doing, but she'd been inside too long, smoke exhalation and third degree burns taking their toll. Bucky had her taken off life support two days later, the lot their house had sat on was sold a month after that to pay for medical bills.

Natasha Barnes liked to say that she came into the world screaming and bloody and she wasn't afraid to go out the same way. That's exactly what happened, too.

**The Thirteenth Ghost**

"Oh Jesus," Justine grunts, hoisting herself up through the hole in the floor.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question!" Tony's scathing retort is interrupted by Bucky's panicked screaming, the man desperately trying to climb up the support beam. The trio move as one, each of them grabbing Bucky wherever they can and hauling him up through the hole before the Hammer can turn him into a human crash test dummy.

"Thanks for taking your time," Bucky snarls. Justine isn't paying him any attention, just kicks the glass floor panel back into place with a grunt. Below, Fury is scratching another message on the panel with yet another spike. Tony's starting to regret ninety-nine percent of his life choices. "Which way, Justine?"

"Down the hall, then we'll make a left and a right."

"Wait, where are we going," Tony demands. He's trying to ignore Fury's message (an eloquently phrased _I'll tear you apart, little man_ ), but he's also more than a little peeved that Justine is giving out orders. Tony doesn't do well with authority figures.

"Just trust me, alright?"

"Bucky?"

"Library," Bucky says, leaning heavily against Clint as he catches his breath. That's about when Tony notices that Bucky has lost his shirt at some point, ripped like an action star with abs that could grate cheese. He's not going to lie, folks, he drools a little. The man could make Narcissus glance away from a mirror.

"Fuck it, let's get going." Tony presses his back to the wall so that the others can pass him without touching him, taking up the rear. He walks backward, trying to keep any ghosts from sneaking up behind them and taking Tony's head off.

"Go slow, everyone. We don't need to attract attention to ourselves when we're out in the open like this." They make it a few feet before a familiar snarl makes Tony turn just in time to see the Jackal throw Bucky against one of the walls, gouging the flesh of Bucky's back with his sharp nails.

"Justine, give me the flare!" He runs over to them when Justine hesitates, snatching it out of her hand and throwing it at the ghost. The Jackal disappears the second before the sparks hit him, just flickering out of existence and leaving Bucky to fall to his knees. "Get him up! Grab him, we gotta go!" Justine and Clint shoulder the bulk of Bucky's weight, practically dragging him as Tony picks the flare back up and waves it at a charging Pilgrimess.

"Tony," Clint yells.

"Keep going!" When the sparks start to die, he tosses the flare and sprints for the library, shoving Clint inside and sliding the glass door home. The Pilgrimess collides with the pane, still trapped in the wooden stock she had died in. "I hate this job," Tony groans, resting his head against the pane and leaving a bloody smear along the glass.

"It doesn't seem to like you too much either," Justine says tersely, slamming the _Arcanum_ down on a table. "I wonder why." He tosses his glasses on the table before pacing back to the door, torn between not giving a fuck and giving way too many fucks to be healthy.

"You got something to say, say it."

"Alright, let's start with this is _all your goddamn fault!_ If you hadn't caught them, then we wouldn't be cowering in the library!" Tony takes a step forward, pointing over at where Bucky is straddling a chair. The Jackal's cuts run the full length of Bucky's back, ragged, bloody tears.

"His uncle was the one that built the house!"

"Yeah, but you helped him!"

"Don't act so high and mighty. For all your talk about helping these spirits, you sure didn't stick around too long when they came out to play!"

"Because your crew was provoking them! Why do you think so many of those men Obie hired ended up dead?"

"Shut up all of you," Bucky commands weakly from his chair. "Cut him some slack, would you? What difference does it make?" Justine glances between Bucky and Tony for a moment, looking like she had the winning hand in high stakes poker. Tony doesn't like that look, that's the look women give you when they're about to dump a milkshake on your head or break your kneecaps.

"You didn't tell him, did you?"

"Oh God, w-what? Tell me what? What now?" Bucky stands up slowly, using the back of his chair in order to stay standing.

"About the fourth ghost." Tony's head snaps up as he remembers walking through the halls of a deserted hospital. It was after visiting hours and the nurse behind the desk was sleeping with a copy of _Seventeen_ draped over her face, they had three men, not including Obie and Tony, and they'd captured the spirit without the use of spells. That was how they'd gotten the Withered Lover, how they'd gotten _Natasha Barnes_.

"Don't do this," Tony pleads. "I didn't tell him, don't do this."

"He has a right to know!"

"What about the fourth ghost," Bucky asks, shaking and barely able to stand.

"Saint Luke's hospital, six months ago." The news seems to hit Bucky like a ton of bricks, tears making his eyes shine and his arms almost giving out on him. Behind him, Clint's got his hands over his mouth and he's shaking his head back and forth as though that would be enough to make the news less true.

"Are you saying my wife's spirit is trapped in this house?" His voice is uneven towards the end, and Tony's surprised when he doesn't break down completely. It has to be one of the worst feelings in the world.

"I didn't know you," Tony says as an apology. "I didn't know her. I didn't know she had a _husband_." With a cry of rage, Bucky lunges forward and punches Tony, sending them both to the ground.

"Why? Tell me, why her?"

"I don't know why! Obie handpicked them all, including your wife." Tony wipes his hand under his nose, more blood added to the dried mess on his fingers. "The second I realized who you were, I tried to help."

"You call this help? She's right, this _is_ all your goddamn fault!" Clint helps Bucky up, keeping a hand on his arm until he's steady but not moving away. They're close, not in a romantic sense, but Clint would probably do whatever he could to make sure Bucky and his kids made it out of here in one piece.

"I might know a way that you can save her and your kids," Justine says, walking around the table with her leather-bound book clutched to her chest like a safety blanket. "It's going to sound weird, but this house is one big machine, a faithful recreation of Basileus' design."

"Quick question, did you happen to scarf down any mushrooms before sneaking in here," Tony asks disbelievingly. "Maybe smoke a little weed that tasted stranger than usual or dropped some acid?"

"Unlike you, I don't have to rely on drugs to live with myself."

"Work with Obie for a year and then come talk to me." That's not even counting the years Tony spent around the man when he was still a kid, back when Obie liked to shove him around whenever Howard wasn't looking. Howard had the verbal abuse and neglect down to a science, but Obie had turned physical abuse into an art.

"According to the _Arcanum_ , there should be twelve earth-bound spirits trapped inside. See this? They represent the Black Zodiac, the ghosts that Obie needed to catch." Tony drags himself back to his feet and stumbles over to the table, taking in the varying ghosts and their corresponding sigils. "The Firstborn Son, the Torso, the Bound Woman, the Withered Lover."

"Tasha," Bucky sighs, running a reverent hand over the page. There's an instant of quiet, filled with grief and a pulsing rage. Tony swallows thickly and moves back to the door to look out in the hallway.

"The Torn Prince, the Angry Princess, the Pilgrimess, the Great Child and the Dire Mother, the Hammer, the Jackal is the sign of Hell's winter, and the Juggernaut. According to Basileus, the machine required the energy of these specific spirits in order to bring it to life. Once it engages, the spirits are released one by one and the house then draws them to its center. Each one adds its energy to the machine, powering it up."

"For what?"

"To open the _Ocularis Infernum_."

"The _Ocularis_ ," Clint asks. "What's that?"

"It's Latin," Bucky provides," it means the Eye of Hell." Clint throws his arms up in the air and starts to pace the library, muttering angrily under his breath. Tony watches him go, winding himself up until he's almost shouting about how Lady Luck has it out for him. "Go on," Bucky urges Justine.

"In Hell, there is an eye that sees everything," she explains," the past and the future, Heaven and Earth, the blessed and the damned. If knowledge is power, then the man who controls the _Ocularis_ would be the most powerful man on earth."

"And you people wonder why I used to get high," Tony scoffs. "How else would I deal with an ego big enough that he thinks he could actually get away with this type of shit? He was on a power trip twenty-four seven." Tony kicks the leg of a chair and regrets it an instant later, his toe throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

"How many ghosts have been set free," Bucky asks, leaning an elbow on the table.

"Eleven," Justine answers," and the house needs twelve." Tony stalks back to the table, shaking his head the entire way. He remembers that night in the junkyard, the iron tang of blood in the air and the grisly sight of Ian lying dead in Justine's arms. He remembers the man hissing at Obie about spells and….

"Thirteen," Tony corrects. "Ian said that there are _thirteen_ ghosts."

"The thirteenth ghost is a fail-safe. In order to stop the process, the house needs a sacrifice of life instead of death. A willing human sacrifice, a sacrifice of a broken heart." She looks pointedly at Bucky while she talks, something Clint takes offense to. "The only ghost to be created out of an act of pure love."

"Bucky's the thirteenth ghost."

"The thirteenth spirit stands before the Eye at the final configuration. As the Eye opens, the spirit uses the power of life to essentially short-circuit the system."

"Uses the power of life how," Bucky asks.

"By leaping into the Eye."

"And Bucky's supposed to take this leap," Clint asks, putting a protective hand on his shoulder. "Seriously, lady, how fucking high are you? You think I'm gonna let my best friend kill himself just to do to this house what a cup of water does to a computer? Go fuck yourself."

"Love is the most powerful energy, Bucky. In order for you to save your children, you'd have to trade your life for theirs." Tony pulls the book away from Justine, desperately looking for any other way to get the kids back. This isn't right, Bucky and his family shouldn't have to suffer because of Obie's choices. Tony groans, suddenly regretting not taking up Latin when he'd had the chance. He'd learned Italian and Russian, he'd even learned Tolkien's Elvish, but he'd tossed Latin aside like it was a redheaded step-child.

"There's got to be another way," Tony insists, shoving the book aside in disgust.

"Well, we can try it the old fashioned way, my personal favorite." Justine dumps out her bag, explosives and the makings of a homemade bomb falling out on the table. "Nobody's gonna be here to brag about it afterward. Whatever we decide, we gotta come up with a game plan soon 'cause time's running out."

"You're gonna blow the place up," Clint asks in disbelief.

"The last ghost is about to be released."

"And what if the suicide option doesn't actually work," Tony demands, leaning his hands against the table. "What if Bucky dies and this stupid machine keeps going? We have no real guarantee since you're the only one here that can understand what the book says. Frankly, I don't trust you as far as I can throw you."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"I'm workin' on it!" Bucky shoves away from the table and crosses the room to one of the windows, Tony following after him. "Justine is talking about _suicide_." Bucky whirls to face him and Tony jumps back, crossing his eyes to stare at the finger pointing at him.

"What if it was your kids that could die in here," Bucky snarls. "What would you do to save them?" Tony can sense the anxiety coming off Bucky in thick, powerful waves. He feels like he's going to drown under all of that energy and he has to swallow again to keep his meager breakfast from making a reappearance. "You'd track them down and hurt any bastard that tried to stop you, isn't that right?"

"That sounds as good an option as any." Tony's resigned to the fact that they'll probably be dead by morning. It's a miracle they've all made it this long with as many attacks that have happened. "Let's go out there and find your kids." Bucky finally drops his hand back to his side, determination straightening his spine.

"No matter what I decide to do or what happens to any of us, are you sure you can stop that machine," he asks.

"I got enough explosives to blow us back to the fifteenth century," Justine answers with a smile.

"How many flares do you have left?"

"One, why?"

"We're going out again. How are we doing this?" He looks to Tony for an answer and Tony thinks for a moment before letting out a soft huff of laughter.

"By taking the barrier spells with us," he says. "Clint, how hard do you think it would be to take that panel down and keep it intact?" Clint wanders over to the door, using the flashlight on his keychain to locate the hidden hinges. "Well?"

"Works a bit like those glass shower doors," Clint answers. "Hey, Bucky, remember that time we had to replace the shower door after a badly thrown football?" The expression of wry amusement tells Clint he does, in fact, remember the badly thrown football. "Think we can get this thing off the same way we got the new door on?"

"Can't be too different." He and Bucky work together and the pane pops free after a vicious kick from Bucky, the pair leaning it against the wall with twin grunts of effort. Tony will admit that he ogles Bucky a little too much, but _come on_. Who would ogle perfection when it's only wearing biker boots and jeans?

"We got about ten minutes before the ectoplasmic shit hits the fan," Justine informs the group. "You two go find the kids and Clint and I will head downstairs to buy you some time." Bucky and Tony take control of the pane, one on each side so that they're both mostly protected by the spells. They head out first, making their way down the hall on the left while the others start down the right towards the hole Justine had made.

"You're wondering about the football thing, aren't you?"

"Very much so," Tony nods.

"Clint should never be allowed to play sports."

"Makes sense. Any sports you're not allowed to play?"

"Nope, I'm a natural athlete unlike either of my children or my babysitter." They turn a corner up ahead, creeping slowly forward. "What about you, Tony? What sports do you like?" Tony snorts and ducks his head a moment before remembering that a ghost could shank him at any given moment if he's not paying attention.

"Wii Sport." Bucky laughs at that, an honest from-the-belly sound that makes Tony beam with pride. He's never made someone laugh like that before, not even Rhodey, and some part of him buried deep down in his subconscious unclenches for the first time since his mom died. "I'm not the sporty type."

"And what type are you?"

"Yours, hopefully." Bucky's smirk is reflected in the glass and Tony's sure the self-satisfaction curling his mouth into a grin is reflected as well. "What do you say, Bucky? We survive this and I'll take you and your family out for pancakes."

"How do you know Clint isn't my boyfriend?"

"Cause he wants us to hook-up, too." Bucky makes a choked noise that sounds like a bitten-off laugh, a flash of white teeth visible in a repressed grin. "So, pancakes?"

"Fine, if we make it out of here, you can buy us pancakes." Tony doesn't try to fight back his own grin, not even when it's his turn to go first around the next corner.

Clint and Justine pause when they make it to the hole, staring down into it and not moving.

"Any volunteers to go first?"

"I don't fucking think so," Clint states. "It was your idea to go back into the murder basement."

"I was afraid you'd say that." Justine digs around in her satchel until she finds the last flare, flicking the cap over the top to get sparks showering around them. She drops the flare in case any ghosts try to show up while she's distracted, using the support beam to control her fall into the basement. Clint jumps down after her, landing with a soft grunt.

"What now?"

"Now you put these on." Justine hands Clint a pair of glasses and then picks up the flare. "Come on, let's get this over with." Clint grumbles under his breath, sticking close to Justine as they make their way through the halls.

"If we live through this, I'm eating my weight in ice cream and punching anyone that comments on it." Clint glances to the right and freezes, taking in the stacks of cash littering the floor and the whole ass dead guy slouched next to it. "I, uh, found the lawyer." He swallows down bile and forces himself to turn away from the grisly sight. "Ugh."

"He had it coming." They make a few more turns, going deeper into the basement than Clint and Tony had earlier. They keep going until they're forced to stop in front of a pair of glass doors, Justine kneeling and pressing a button that makes the panes slide back. A spacious room is waiting beyond the doors with an hourglass-shaped machine in the middle of it, big enough to reach from the floor to the high ceiling and made up of spinning blades and cogs.

"Holy mother of God…." Clint takes the flare from Justine as she moves over to the little station set up beside the machine. Clint's attention is so focused on the whirling blades that he never notices someone sneaking up behind him until it's almost too late. He turns when a long shadow falls over the floor, finding an older man built like a brick shithouse, dried blood crusted around his neck and the old suit he's got on. "You've got to be fucking kidding me right now."

The iron tip of the man's cane makes _click-clack_ noises on the floor, scraping slightly before he picks it up again. Clint turns the flare on him, but the man just uses the cane to knock it out of his hand, sending it spitting and sizzling across the floor. There's only one reason why that flare doesn't work and that's because the bastard's still kicking.

"Justine, get over here!" Clint chances a look over at the woman, but she's got this weird little smile going on and a touch of the crazies in her eyes. She lifts the thick book up and then brings it down in a sharp arch against Clint's head. The strength behind the blow is enough to make him dizzy, the room spinning as he drops to the ground. Maybe they'll leave him alone if they think he's dead.

Justine closes the distance between her and the man, pressing her lips against his in a sickening display. Obadiah doesn't let the kissy act last long, though, taking the book and shoving Justine away from him with enough force to have her falling back into a chair.

"Where is it," he asks, flipping to the back of the book. "Where is it?" He slams the book closed, advancing on the traitorous bitch. "Justine!"

"Why are you so mad at me," she stutters nervously. "I did everything you asked me to do."

"Justine—"

"I killed Ian, I stole his spells..."

"Justine—"

"...I even made sure your pathetic nephew didn't get himself killed."

"Justine!" The sudden shout is what makes her shut up, blue eyes wide as Obadiah holds up the book and gestures at it with his free hand. "Where are the _spells?"_ He enunciates each word as though he's talking to a mentally deficient puppy, shoving the book into her arms. She hurriedly pulls an audio reel out of her bag, giving it to him.

"You're not mad at me, are you?"

"Of course not." One of the levers at the base of the machine raises with a click and Clint's stomach lurches. _The Juggernaut is loose_. Clint forces himself to keep his breath shallow despite how he wants to scream, staying lax on the floor. If he can just make it long enough for these goons to leave, then maybe he can stop the machine.

"What do we do next?" Obadiah walks over to the machine, Justine following after him like a little lost puppy. "Your nephew believes that sacrificing himself will save his kids, but he won't do it unless he's convinced they're in jeopardy."

"Well, put them in jeopardy." Obadiah doesn't even hesitate to condemn two innocent children, preparing the audio reel to play. Clint bites his cheek so hard that iron floods his mouth, but he doesn't give himself away.

"What? They're just kids."

"Greatness requires sacrifice. I believe you have a job to do." Justine nods after a moment and jumps into action, walking across the room and out of Clint's line of sight. Obadiah finishes feeding the tape into the little machine set up at the station, pressing a button that has Latin spells transmitting through the house using cleverly hidden speakers. "Fetch the book."

Clint stays flat on the floor, watching as Obadiah strides out purposefully with Justine trailing a few feet behind him. The distance is enough to have him through the short hallway first and then the walls of the hallway are sliding closed like a trash compactor, squishing Justine between them.

The Hammer's smile is a vile thing, the stuff of nightmares. Tony shoves the pane of glass against a corner, trapping Bucky behind it and putting himself in harm's way. He can't get this far only to let Bucky die now. Besides, he recognizes this hallway from his vision, knows that he's about to be killed. Better to die a hero and all that jazz.

"Tony," Bucky's yelling. "Tony, no! Let me out!" Tony just shakes his head, pressing his back against the pane with as much force as he can manage. "Don't do this!"

"It's alright, Bucky," he says, voice calm despite the way his heart is trying to commit seppuku. "I've been looking for a reason to like myself for a long time." He turns his attention back to the hulking form coming towards him, then Fury is right in front of him and he's bringing the hammer down in a vicious strike. Tony ducks away at the last minute and the hammer collides with the glass pane protecting Bucky. "That's right, you little bitch, you're gonna have to work for it!"

Fury swings again and Tony manages to duck and roll, a shower of sparks sizzling against his back. He gets back to his feet, leading Fury away from Bucky down the hall he'd just come down. Fury catches the front of Tony's shirt and tosses him like he weighs nothing, Tony's back colliding with the glass. The drop is worse than the throw, his head bouncing off the floor and making his ears ring.

Down the opposite hall, a new form has flickered into view. They're tall enough that their dark hair brushes the ceiling, their jumpsuit riddled with bullet holes and caked in blood. The last time Tony had seen that ghost was in a junkyard, beating a man's head against the glass of a freshly-built cube.

The Juggernaut is loose and he's got a grudge.

"Oh shit," Tony breathes. Fury picks him up, unconcerned that a bigger badass has entered the ring. Tony's actually a little relieved when he's thrown again, farther down the hall and away from Bruce Banner's long stride. He tries to get back up, but his shoulder is burning and his vision swims with tears.

Back down the hall, there's a scratch like breaking metal and then a glass pane has slammed against Fury. Bucky's gotten the pane loose and he's on a rampage, sandwiching Fury against the opposite pane of glass and making him disappear with another howl.

"You're next, asshole," he growls, pointing up at Bruce. The ghost actually pauses for a moment, cocking his head to the side as he considers the threat level. Tony's not gonna lie, he's kinda turned on right now. Bucky's feral and shirtless and he just saved Tony's life, the only thing that would make this situation better is if they weren't in this fucking house.

Bruce stalks forward again, his gigantic hands reaching for Bucky only to be smacked away like a naughty kid in catholic school. Bruce appears shocked, drawing his hands back so fast that the movement is a blur. He tries again and, again, Bucky smacks the outstretched hands with the glass.

"No," he snaps, falling back into his Dad voice. "That's bad!"

"B-bad," Bruce echoes. "Bad?"

"Bad." Tony gets to his feet and limps over to Bucky, using dizziness as an excuse to press against his side. He may or may not cop a feel. Before Bruce can try to grab Bucky again, a metal pole is colliding with the side of his head. Bruce flinches away and turns to look behind him. Whatever he sees there has him flickering out of view and Tony's only partly surprised to see Natasha Barnes.

"Hey handsome," she greets, smirking up at her husband. Where Bucky is gorgeous like carved marble, Natasha is beautiful. Her red hair is long and vibrant, falling over her shoulder in a thick braid, her full lips boasting a soft cupid's bow. She's like sunshine after a week of rain, soft and bright and wonderful. It's nothing like the withered spirit Tony had found in the hospital, no burns in sight.

"Tasha." Bucky's voice has lost the feral tone and he leans the glass against the wall. There's no threat here, no sense of malice left in Natasha as she cups Bucky's cheek. Her IV stand is still lying on the floor, dropped after she'd smacked Bruce with it. What is with this family and hitting ghosts? "I've missed you so much."

"It's going to be okay, Bucky. You two are going to make sure of that, aren't you?" She cuts her gaze to Tony and he flinches under the weight of accusation. He knows what he did is wrong, but he also knows that he'd be dead if he'd denied Obie. "Save our kids and then be happy, my dearest darling. Do that for me." Tears glisten as they slide down Bucky's cheeks, precious as diamonds. Tony glances away, feeling like an intruder. He shouldn't be here for this, it's not right. _He's_ not right. "Tony?"

"Yeah," Tony asks, rasping. Natasha is staring up at him again and she brings her other hand up to cup his cheek as well. Where the other ghosts are cold, Natasha is brimming with warmth, only a slight chill that the dead can't shake. He melts into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. His mom used to do this, cupping his cheek and making him promise to have the sweetest of dreams. He misses that.

"Take care of my family or I'll haunt you." Tony's laugh is a little on the wet side, but no one mentions that.

"Yes, ma'am." Latin spells ring through invisible speakers and Natasha glares up at the noise like it has personally offended her. She's gone a moment later, flickering out of existence like she'd never been there. "You're wife was a badass."

"Yeah," Bucky says. His eyes still glimmer with tears, but he's smiling proudly at how his wife had saved them both. Tony thinks he'll start praying again when he gets out of here because, if anyone deserves to be prayed to, it's Natasha. "Let's go save my kids."

"And then we'll eat pancakes." Beyond them, past the glass wall that separates them from the front of the house, the middle of the floor slides away and a platform rises to replace it. Sitting there, surrounded by spinning blades, Darcy and Steve are doing their best to make themselves small. Beyond this, all twelve of the ghosts are surrounding the platform, stuck there by the Latin spells.

"Kids!" The men sprint around to the open doorway, but they're forced to stop unless they want to get cut to ribbons. There's no way to get to the kids without a death-defying jump and even then you have to hope you don't get caught up in all that machinery.

"How do we get them?"

"I don't know." The desperation has bled back into Bucky's voice, his hands raised with his palms out. "It's gonna be alright," Bucky calls to the kids. "I'm gonna get you both outta here!" The kids shout for him and some long-dormant instinct seems to come to life inside Tony, fueling an urge to keep these kids safe no matter the cost. He can't let them die here, he just can't.

"I'm gonna see if I can't find something to bridge that gap. Hell, maybe something to jam the gears, too."

"Hurry." Tony sprints into the next room, shoving antiques off a long table before trying to drag the heavy thing out of the room. He's still trying to get the table through a narrow doorway when he happens to glance to the right and notes that things have gotten even worse.

Obie strides into the room, dressed in the bloody clothes from the junkyard and sporting that dead man's grin. It makes something twist harshly in Tony's gut to see it, and it takes him a moment to realize that it's honest-to-God, hand-on-the-bible _terror_. This beast, this monster, is the most abominable thing in this entire goddamn house.

And he's heading straight for Bucky.

"Bucky," Tony shouts. "Bucky, behind you!" Bucky jerks around and stares at Obie in shock, taking in the bloodied clothes and the torn throat. Slowly, like he's not sure what to expect, Bucky slips his glasses off. Tony does the same, but Obie is still standing proudly in the hall. "He's not dead…."

"You're not dead," Bucky realizes. Without warning, Bucky charges forward and pins Obie to the wall, pressing that damned cane across Obie's throat with a ferocious snarl."You son of a bitch! Let my kids go!" Bucky gets three good punches in before Obie manages to block one, using his cane to jab Bucky in the ribs.

"Damn you," Obie snarls, kicking Bucky away from him. "You're nothing, James! _Nothing_!" Obie looms over Bucky like Goliath did David except Bucky doesn't have any stones to throw. "I've dedicated my entire life to this! Every waking moment for years!" He kicks Bucky again, keeping him down. "Have you ever shown that kind of dedication?"

Tony moves away from the table and grabs up a staff carved from some kind of wood that's more expensive than Tony's entire apartment building. It's a heavy weight in his hands and he's sure he can do some damage with it.

"The world has no time for little people like you. It needs people who are willing to do anything—"

"Hey," Tony shouts. Obie looks genuinely surprised to see Tony there and Tony takes full advantage of it, bringing the staff down in a sharp arch that connects with Obie's cheekbone. Obie falls with a grunt, one of his molars skittering over the glass floor and stopping at Tony's shoes. "Surprise, bitch."

"You're supposed to be dead," Obie slurs.

"So are you." Tony swings again, hitting Obie's shin with the sound of breaking bone. Obie screams and jerks away, breathing hard as he glares up at Tony. "I only have one question for you, Obie."

"Why am I doing this?"

"No, you can shove that monologue up your ass. I wanna know how lucky you feel." Obie's brows draw together, a small crease appearing between them. Bucky surges up off the floor and grabs the front of Obie's shirt, yanking him up so they're face to face.

"Tell me how to stop this," he snarls, spittle flying against Obie's face. "Tell me!" Bucky gives Obie a harsh shake, but he stays stubbornly silent. Overhead, the Latin spells are replaced by the sound of scratched records, running backward before stopping altogether. "What the—"

"Hell," Obie finishes, confused. The ghosts vanish from their circle and then they're crowding into the hall, tearing Obie out of Bucky's hands. Vengeful spirits are known to hold grudges better than any Scorpio, carrying Obie into the room like an old fashioned lynch mob and tossing the man right into the spinning blades. Obie's gone in seconds, cut to ribbons with not even a shred of his fancy suit left.

"Well, we're definitely not making that jump," Tony says, shaking his head.

"No, _we're_ not," Bucky agrees. Tony nods and then he pauses, frowning over at Bucky.

"I don't like how you emphasized that word." Bucky grins over at him, recklessly determined. "I don't like that grin either. Don't make your kids watch you die, Bucky."

"If I don't make it, get them out." And then Bucky's running, pushing off of the floor at the last second and curling into a ball. The blades whirl an inch above his head and less than that under his foot, but he somehow makes it onto the platform. "Get down!" He curls himself over his kids, protecting them as well as he can.

Tony's starting to wonder if he can get that table in here after all when the house starts to shake and rattle under his feet.

Clint sits up and shakes his head to clear it, blue eyes locking on the control panel. He tries to stand, but then his stomach does another lurch and he's forced back to his knees.

"Okay, crawling's good," he mutters to no one. "Crawling's great, I learned how to do that before I walked anyway." Yup, he's pretty sure he's got a concussion. Maybe the hospital will give him one of those stamp cards like Starbucks has, get five concussions and your next one is treated for free.

It's slow going, but Clint finally makes it to the panel, pulling himself up and pressing random buttons. The Latin chant continues through the speakers, but Clint doesn't give up. Members of the Barnes family are known to be a hard-headed bunch and that goes double for the hired help.

"The reels!" Clint yanks the reel off the table and throws it at the machine before moving over to the levers, pushing them down and pulling them back up to get a reaction. He gets just that when the metal cogs begin to grind against each other, tearing apart. "Hell yeah!"

The machine makes a low grinding noise and that's about when Clint realizes that he Fucked Up™. The machine is going to explode (which is good), but Clint's going to explode with it (which is _not_ good). He turns on his heel and stumbles to the doors, pushing and squeezing the hall doors open and then jumping over the puddle that used to be Justine.

The explosion rocks the house, shattering glass and rending the metal beams. The sound is deafening even when Clint pulls off his hearing aids, a wave of heat knocking him off his feet. It seems to last forever, glass raining down on him like a shower of diamonds, glittering in the moonlight that's shining in now that the roof has been blown to smithereens.

He coughs when the dust starts to settle, then he's up and stomping through the remains of the basement, screaming for anyone to hear that he's done with this ghost shit. The house is done too, blown to bits with every object inside broken apart.

"I want a raise," Clint shouts.

"Then stop fucking setting my pillows on fire," Bucky shouts back.


	7. The Idiot's Guide to Living Happily Ever After

Bucky wakes up in a bedroom far larger than any he's ever slept in before, not quite ready to be conscious. The bedroom walls are still covered in his son's drawings, but there are fewer beheadings and more smiling faces now. It's a knock at the door that drags Bucky out of his thoughts, the door opening just enough for Darcy to poke her head inside. With her happy smile comes the sound of cartoons and the smell of cooking food.

"It's almost eight, Dad," she says with a tinge of apology. "You'll be late to your first class if you don't get up."

"Roger that," he says. Darcy studies him for a moment, then gives him a sharp nod and shuts the door again. The sound is muffled, but he can still hear the morning routine playing out. No longer is it chaos with different voices demanding others to move it or lose it, now the laughter's back with music playing in the background.

Bucky sighs and forces himself to get out of bed, pulling on a button-down and khakis before shuffling down the stairs to the kitchen. The kids and Clint are already settled around the table and Tony is standing at the stove, artfully flipping a pancake in the air and catching it on a plate.

"Today on Death in LA," Steve says into his recorder," a body was found this morning behind the Dunkin' Donuts." Which reminds Bucky that he owes his kids a trip to Dunkin' Donuts, but he'll make sure to find one without any crime scene tape fluttering around.

"What's with murders at Dunkin' Donuts," Darcy asks, frowning over at her brother. "Why can't there be a murder at Starbucks?"

"Maybe someone's trying to drive that particular Dunkin' Donuts out of business," Clint suggests, nursing a cup of coffee. "Like a badly written Scooby-Doo episode or something."

"Morning, guys," Bucky greets. Clint grunts and hands him the coffee cup, Bucky taking a long drink from it. It's the fancy brand that Natasha used to insist on, a weird little interest she and Tony share.

"Enough with the death talk," Tony says, bringing the plate over to the table. The stack of pancakes is comically tall, but he never drops one as he sets it down and takes his seat beside Bucky. "Everyone dig in." Bucky sits back and watches his family stake a claim on Tony's famous pancakes, it's like watching piranhas descend on a helpless antelope. "You, too, Professor. You gotta keep your strength up if you want to handle a group of sleep-deprived college students."

"Yes, sir." Bucky grins when Tony shivers, but everyone else studiously pretends like Tony and Bucky don't have a sex life. Tony's made it a game to traumatize Darcy as much as possible before she heads to college next Fall. "So, how was everyone's night?"

"Uneventful," Clint shrugs. "No fires or anything." Which is a real treat considering Bucky's become such good friends with the fire chief. The next time Clint accidentally sets a throw pillow on fire, they get a free steak dinner at Texas Roadhouse. Granted, Bucky's pretty sure that's only because the fire chief (a charming woman named Laura) wants to get in Clint's pants. Still, Bucky will take a free steak where he can get it.

"Darcy, do you have your book report done?"

"Yup," she nods, cheeks puffed out from the sheer amount of pancake she's managed to shove in there.

"Stevie, what about you?"

"Printed and in my homework folder," he says, not a trace of a lie to be found. Bucky smiles and finally allows himself to relax, smearing butter and syrup over his pancakes. Tony drapes an arm over the back of Bucky's chair, running his fingers along the edge just close enough to barely brush Bucky's shoulder. There's no over touching most days, not unless Tony's taken his meds, but Bucky doesn't mind it.

"I think we should go to the park after school," Tony says, smiling over at Steve. "Our young man over there will be announced class president after lunch and he deserves a treat."

"Dang straight I do." Steve puffs out his thin chest with a proud smile, every inch the comic book hero he wants to be. One of these days, Steve's going to fill out and Bucky will be fending off would-be suitors with a broom. Until then, however, he simply wants to enjoy his family while they're still together.

His picture-perfect life is singed at the edges, but Bucky Barnes has the energy to rebuild it from the ground up.


End file.
